


Mute

by Eczilon



Series: Mute [1]
Category: Hitman: Absolution
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eczilon/pseuds/Eczilon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>During a routine contract, 47 meets a mysterious woman. Despite his better judgement, he feels compelled to rescue her from her situation.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

He still remembers the first time he saw her.  
It's unusual for him, as he usually tries not to think about his contracts after they're finished. It's not a matter of shame or guilt for what he has done, just a simple matter of 'I don't really give a shit' and as long as he got away clean and the money is sitting in his account, whatever fallout isn't his problem. Killing is a job, it's what he was created to do, what he'd been trained all his life to do. He doesn't get paid to have emotions. In fact, usually he operates as though he doesn't have them at all. And why not? He's been suppressing them for so long sometimes even he believes that he doesn't have them.  
And then she came along.  
Now as he sits on the edge of the bed, clad only in his underwear and staring out the window at the brick wall of the next building over, he can hear her breathing. Soft, whispering breaths that can barely be heard over the sounds of the city outside. But he can hear them - he listens for them, almost as if he's afraid that one day they'll stop.  
Finally he turns, hitching one knee up onto the bed and looking over his shoulder. He watches her sleeping form, the soft rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. The way her hair curves along her back and disappears under the lone sheet that is covering her. The outline of her legs, bent at the knees and curled up against her chest; the angular space where the sheet descends back to the mattress with nothing else to hold it up.  
She is his reason.


	2. The Dorfman Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a routine contract, 47 meets a mysterious woman. Despite his better judgement, he feels compelled to rescue her from her situation.

He hated contracts like this.  It's rare that Diana sends him on missions where his main objective isn't even to kill, just to steal.

_I'm an assassin - not a thief._

Still, if the money is good, he'll do whatever she asks, because that's just how much he trusts Diana. Besides, it isn't as though he has the luxury of turning down contracts just because he doesn't get to do what he wants. If he had ever started doing that, he wouldn't have nearly as many successful contracts as he does.

The problem arose after he had the files in his possession. They weren't at all interesting to him, but Diana seemed to think they were important, and so he  glanced over them. That had been the mistake, and he hadn't seen more than a few numbers and names before the shots rang out. He'd been seen.

It's not like him to be so careless, but it isn't the first time he's ever been caught, either. He wasn't on an expressly directed 'no kill' contract, but he usually preferred to keep things clean and just silently deal with any problems rather than kill a non-target. Thinking fast, he dropped the files, letting them scatter on the floor and grabbed at the first object within his line of sight. He wasn't sure what the hell the thing was, but it was heavy and just the right size to fit comfortably in his palm. He turned to the direction where the shots came from and only had a split second to lean out of the way of another bullet. It threw off his aim, but not enough - he still managed to lob whatever it was directly in the face of the guard, who stupidly dropped his gun and clutched at his face, his now broken nose which was bleeding all over.

 _Don't have time to fuck around,_ he thought, quickly gathering up the scattered file and tucking it into his jacket before taking off out of the room. He only has a moment to think, climbing into an air vent and managing to get inside mere moments before there were footsteps bounding down the hallway. _More guards, just a second too late._

He was perfectly confident that he'd escaped as he traversed the vents, peeking out of grates as he passed them until he found the perfect spot to get out. The room looked empty - no guards, no sounds from out of his field of vision, just some crates and blank walls. A storage room.

He slipped out of the vent carefully, just in case there happened to be a guard outside the door or something, hitting the ground and immediately crouching. He hadn't _seen_ any windows, but that didn't mean there weren't any. One quick look around proved that he was safe, and so he stood upright, taking one step forward...

Chains. Rattling chains, scraping across a concrete floor. He immediately turned in the direction of the sound, raising his Silverballer and pointing it at a corner of the room. _What the hell... where's that noise coming from?_

Then he saw it. A hollow in the wall, a place where the bricks didn't quite match up. Again he took one step forward, his gun still pointed, and he can see the shift in the bricks. It's an old labyrinth trick - you think you're staring at a solid wall, but you're actually looking at a pathway.

The chains continued to clatter, and from around the corner that was almost invisible came an arm. A pale, delicate looking arm that grasped the corner, followed by a flash of ginger hair and a face, possessed of wide brown eyes - doe eyes, they were called - and plump pink lips. A woman.

He hated killing women. He wasn't naive enough to believe that they were all innocent, delicate creatures who couldn't harm a soul - he'd had to kill plenty of women that were just the opposite - but he still hated to do it.

She didn't seem at all scared, though he could tell she noticed the gun as her eyes passed over it. She stepped out from the corner but made no move like she was going to surrender, instead just watching him like she was unsure of what to do. She wasn't looking at the gun anymore, instead she was looking at his left arm, the one that was resting neutrally at his side.

His finger tightened on the trigger as she moved, bending down slightly, and then he could hear the rip of fabric. She was tearing off the bottom of her dress, and now he was definitely confused. What the fuck was she doing? Did she not _see_ the threat he posed to her? Did she just completely have no sense of danger?

The woman had torn off a strip from the hemline of her dress, and as she righted herself she held it out to him. He narrowed his eyes and it wasn't until he went to take it from her that he felt it. The guard from before had missed, but there was still a tear in the arm of his jacket and a dark crimson stain around it. He hadn't been _shot_ exactly, but the bullet had grazed his arm and despite the gun pointed at her face, she had seen it and found it more important.

She wasn't a threat, he decided, especially not when he took a closer look and realized that the woman was chained to something beyond the wall, if the shackle on her ankle was anything to go by. For whatever reason, this woman was a prisoner here, locked away secretly in this room. He lowered the gun and holstered it, reaching out with his good arm to take the scrap of fabric.  Once he had it in his hands, he lowered his head slightly, a sort of bowing motion to acknowledge that he was grateful, though he couldn't figure out why she had been concerned.

He had been about to start wrapping the wound when he could hear footsteps outside. He had been about to make a dash for a nearby crate when he saw her motioning to him, beckoning him over to her. Well, behind the wall was as good a hiding place as any, he reasoned, and so he made the split-second decision to follow, coming around the corner and seeing the makeshift 'bedroom' that served as her cell. There was a large plush floor cushion, circular and surrounded by smaller cushions, an armoire against the wall that was maybe three feet away, and the end of the chain clamped to one of the legs of it, giving her just enough room to peek around the wall and little else.

The woman quickly made her way over to the armoire, opening it and gesturing animatedly to the inside. Beggars really couldn't be choosers, and he wasted no time in getting inside it, nestling himself between a few dresses of a rather revealing style. Suddenly he had a pretty good idea why she was being kept prisoner here, and the thought disgusted him. Even as she pushed the doors closed and concealed him, he couldn't help but feel angry.

"There you are," cooed a man's voice with a heavy German accent, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. "My radiant blossom!"

Briefly he thought to himself that he might get sick. 'Radiant blossom'? That didn't even make any sense, let alone being an asinine pet-name. He'd never understood the logic behind calling someone anything that wasn't their name. Still, he carefully pushed one of the doors of the armoire open just a crack, enough for him to be able to see out of.

The voice belonged to a man who looked to be at least sixty-five years old, with greying hair that fanned out of either side of his head. He wore rounded glasses that were too small for his face, giving him a beady-eyed predatory look, and a pristine white lab coat over a v-neck sweater. The quintessential 'mad scientist', this had to be none other than Hershel Dorfman, the geneticist whose lab was suspected of being funded by some very shady characters he was looking forward to being contracted to kill. From what he knew of Dorfman, the man's main research was in trying to splice different types of DNA into each other. On the surface of it, his main goal was to create honeybees that were more docile and easier for apiaries to handle by crossing their genetics with a more docile insect. That research hadn't produced anything promising in years, but it was suspected that it was only a front for some more sinister goings on.

"What is _this?_ " Dorfman demanded, jarring him from his mental encyclopaedia. Dorfman grabbed the woman roughly by the arm, pointing towards the now missing hem of her dress. "I've told you before, you seduce who I _want_ you to seduce!"

So the woman was a bargaining chip - a way of soliciting research money. That wasn't much better than his original suspicions, and in a way it was even more disgusting. He opened the door just a little wider as Dorfman threw the woman down on the floor, proceeding to start landing some pretty heavy blows with his fists. And through it all, the woman never screamed, or made any sort of sound.

 _She's not my problem,_ he tried to remind himself, even as his hand automatically went for the silenced pistol he trusted more than any human being. _It's got nothing to do with me._

Once the woman had a bloody nose, the doors of the armoire flew open, and a single shot ended the beatings forever with a quiet _thwipp!_ Dorfman's body collapsed on top of the girl, the bullethole in his forehead now leaking blood onto the woman's dress. That didn't last long before he himself kicked the body off of her, extending a hand for her to take as he helped her to her feet.

"Stay close to me," he told her, crouching over the body of Dr. Dorfman and rifling through his pockets for the keys, which he used to unlock the shackle on her ankle. As he stood up, he took a closer look at the woman, taking in her figure and the fact that she _still_ didn't look frightened. There was a sort of metal collar around her neck that he hadn't really noticed before. "I'll get you out of here."

The woman glanced at the corpse on the floor only briefly before she looked up at him, offering the faintest hint of a smile. She stepped over the body and did as she was told, staying close to him even as he hid the body in a crate, then led her out of the building the same way he had gotten in. Once they were outside, he pulled her close to him and snapped off the collar around her neck, glancing at the one word printed on it before dropping it to the ground, taking her by the hand and rushing off to their evacuation point.

*             *             *

 _I don’t even know what I’m doing,_ he thought as he sat down on the bench inside the jet, closing his eyes and rubbing tiredly at his face. And he didn’t, he was perfectly willing to admit it; rescuing her had been an impulse, he hadn’t put that much thought into what he was going to do with her after. She hadn’t tried to lead him anywhere, and somehow he doubted she even had anywhere else to go. Who knew where Dorfman had taken her from, she didn’t even seem like she was local if her face was anything to go by.

 _Well, now she’s coming with me, I suppose._ He leaned back against the wall, the cold steel against his head somewhat refreshing and at the same time a little bit intrusive. He opened his eyes and stared at the woman, who had lay down on the bench across from him, her eyes closed and letting the loud drone of the engines lull her to sleep. It was amusing, in a strange way – he used to do the same thing, listen to the shrill whine of the engines and if you listened long enough, focusing on only that noise, it could lull you into a sleep-like state.

As if she noticed he was watching, she opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbow, staring back at him.

“Go back to sleep,” he told her, closing his eyes again. “We’ll be in the air for the next three hours.”

*             *             *

It was a day later that they finally arrived back at his apartment. He’d had to take care of business first – dropping the papers he’d stolen off to a courier, who would take them back to Diana, and there was also the matter of paying off the pilot who had flown them. Normally it wasn’t his expense to bear, but he couldn’t risk wasting a good pilot just because he was a witness, so he found himself giving out the bribe money to keep him quiet about what he’d seen. He could trust the pilot to keep a plane in the air, but he wouldn’t dare trust him to keep his mouth shut.

Once he opened the door to the apartment, he gave her a gentle push inside and followed close behind, shutting the door and making doubly sure it was locked before he turned to her.

“You need to understand three things if you’re going to stay here,” he told her, reaching up to loosen his tie slightly. He wouldn’t take it off, but this was how he ‘let loose’; he would literally loosen his tie and let it stay relatively loose around his neck. “First of all, don’t leave this apartment unless I tell you to.”

She glanced over at him, tilting her head slightly, and then nodding to show her assent.

“It isn’t that I mean to keep you prisoner, but until the smoke clears you need to stay hidden. Which brings me to point number two; if someone knocks on the door, you hide. Don’t answer it, don’t make a sound, just find a safe place and hide until I tell you to come out.”

She nodded again before taking a look at her immediate surroundings. He couldn’t tell what she might be looking for, but she didn’t seem to find it, as finally she let her eyes rest on him again.

“Third and final rule; do _not,_ under any circumstances, touch my weapons. If one has been left out, it has been left out for a reason. Don’t pick them up, don’t wipe dust off them, don’t even _breathe_ on them. Understood?”

She nodded a final time, clasping her hands together in front of her.

“Good. It’s trusting you with quite a lot just letting you even be here, don’t make me regret it.”

He moved further into the apartment, noting with mild interest that she was following his movements closely – so closely, in fact, that she could have easily reached out and took his arm if she decided to. He hoped that she wouldn’t – he hated when women got too familiar with him, and he had only known her for a day, and even then, he didn’t know the first thing about her.

“The layout is pretty straightforward,” he continued. “The kitchen, table and chairs... the bathroom is through the door on the left, and the bedroom is through the door directly ahead.”

He turned to her again, but this time he noticed that she was staring down at herself – more correctly, at her ragged, bloodstained dress and the dirt that was splattered up her legs, long since dried.

“You should probably wash all that off,” he stated, then furrowed his brow when he realized the problem – what would she wear when she got out? The same tattered and stained dress? That would defeat the purpose somewhat, wouldn’t it? “I’ll find something for you to wear until I can get you some clothing of your own. It will be large, but clean. Just throw the dress out; you’ll never get the blood out of it, trust me.”

She gave a faint smile, then headed for the bathroom quietly, letting herself in and flicking on the light before closing the door. Meanwhile, he went into the bedroom, opening the closet and already trying to figure out what he might have that she could wear.

Pants were out, he knew that much – they had vastly different waist sizes, and even with a belt they would never fit her. He had no shortage of ties and button-down shirts, so at least she had that much, but the question still remained; how did he intend to clothe her in the long run? He already didn’t relish the thought of having to buy women’s clothing without her being present, and what about underwear? The last thing in the world he wanted to do was have to walk into some lingerie shop, picking through bra and panty sets, he didn’t even want to imagine it. _Dammit, what am I doing?_

Sighing, he eventually picked out a shirt at random, taking it off the hanger and taking a half-second look at it before tossing it onto the bed. It would have to do, but he was not looking forward to tomorrow; he’d have to get her something to wear that wasn’t his shirts, and as for underwear, she’d just have to go without.

 _She’ll have to go... without underwear,_ he thought suddenly, covering his mouth with his gloved hand as he felt his face heating up. Now it was the worst game of ‘would you rather’ – would he rather bite the bullet and buy women’s underwear, or would he rather not and have to live with the knowledge that she was completely ass-naked beneath her clothes, regardless of what he managed to get for her? Neither option seemed particularly preferable to him, though he suspected that Dorfman probably didn’t have any trouble making that decision. He found himself wondering how long it had been since the woman had worn any panties at all – was she even wearing them now? He hadn’t looked, wouldn’t dare look, but what if she wasn’t? What if she had been absolutely al fresco the entire time? On the jet, in the car, that brief moment she’d had to sit in his lap while the jet was experiencing turbulence...

 _Just stop thinking about it,_ he told himself, blindly grabbing a sweater out of the closet as well and bringing it over to the shirt he had selected earlier. At least for now, she was covered – a shirt to cover herself with and a sweater in case she became cold, no more reason for him to be thinking about her clothing or lack thereof.

As he headed into the bathroom with the clothes, he made damn sure he didn’t glance over at the shower at all, even going so far as to use his free hand to block his peripheral view of it. He hung the sweater on the towel rack, then rested the shirt overtop of it. He then took a deep breath, covered both sides of his head and went back out the door, closing it behind him and heading straight back to the bedroom.

 _And this is why I don’t get involved with women. Don’t know what to do with them and they’re more trouble than they’re worth anyhow._ Still, he couldn’t say he regretted saving her – he still felt that he had done the right thing, and that freeing her from what must have been a hellish situation for her was probably the greatest thing anyone had ever done for her. But bringing her back with him? He must have been tired, not thinking clearly.

*             *             *

Gallantry wasn’t something that he often considered in his life. He usually didn’t have to – the only woman he interacted with regularly was his handler, and he was businesslike with her – as far as he was concerned, she was only a woman in her personal life. When it came to their ‘relationship’, she was about as close to him as an ATM. She sent him information and mission briefs, transferred money to his account and that was the extent of their involvement. He had done favours for her but that was more out of a sense of personal debt to her for all the work she had set up for him and the countless times she had saved his ass when things went south. Not to mention the time she had faked his death so he could kill the ones who had worked so hard to catch him.

When it came to this woman, though, it was practically an instinct to give her the bed. He felt bad for her in a way – she had spent God knows how many years chained up in that little room, obeying the commands of her captor. Besides, years of experience had made him able to fall asleep in a variety of uncomfortable places – plane seats, the driver’s seat of a car, the inside of a wooden crate once... he could handle not sleeping in his bed, and she could probably use the comfort while she adjusted to this new place. 

And so, wearing one of his shirts - which she had somehow managed to tie around herself in such a way that it looked like a dress - he left her in the bedroom, telling her to get some sleep because things were going to be somewhat hectic tomorrow. He, on the other hand, went into the small area by the front door, easing himself into the one comfortable chair in the apartment, leaning back against it and closing his eyes. He was mentally exhausted from this day already, and he was sure sleep would come to him easily.

Whether it did or not, he wasn't sure. The next thing he remembered was hearing movement nearby, and instinct told him to pretend he was still asleep, until he was sure it was safe to open his eyes. He hadn't heard the door, which was something of a concern, but the shuffling around nearby... that was unnerving. Finally he opened his eyes just slightly, waiting for his vision to focus in the darkness, but what he saw was his apartment, the same way it had looked when he closed his eyes. Confused and sleepy, he opened his eyes fully and leaned forward in the chair, just in the process of getting up when he felt something against his foot.

_A body? How can that be..._

But looking down, sure enough, there was a shape on the floor that was consistent with a body. His eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the darkness yet, and so he knelt down, blindly groping at the body... and as soon as he got a handful of hair, he knew exactly who the body belonged to.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, sounding unimpressed. "I told you to sleep in the bed."

She shifted slightly, but he didn't give her the chance to do - whatever it was she was doing, slipping his hands beneath her and pulling himself to a standing position. Clearly this woman intended to be as much of a pain in the ass as possible, and already his sleep fogged mind was chastising him for going so far out of his way to protect her as he carried her back to the bedroom, setting her on the bed.

"Now stay here," he ordered. "There's no need for you to sleep on the floor. I'm quite content in the chair."

Almost as if trying to ensure she stayed put, he tugged the sheets up over her shoulders and tucked them beneath her before heading back out to his chair. As he sat back down, relaxed, and closed his eyes again, he could already hear her moving around in the bedroom.

 _Goddamn woman, why won't you stay there?_ He didn't even wait for her this time, just got out of his chair and met her in the kitchen, where he promptly picked her up a second time.

"Back to bed," he told her firmly. "I don't know _what_ your issue is but I've already told you to take the bed. I have ways of _making_ you stay in the bed, so do me a favour and just _stay there._ "

Again he brought her back to the room, setting her down on the bed and pulling the sheets up, but this time she grabbed at his arm, catching him by the shoulder and pulling him closer. He had been about to shove her arm away when he noticed the way her muscles were trembling - down her arm, all the way through her body.

 _She's scared,_ he realized, reaching over to the bedside table and flicking on the light, immediately flinching and shutting his eyes against it. "Why are you so bothered to be in here? What are you, afraid of the dark?"

She shook her head, then patted the empty space in the bed beside her, staring at him pointedly.

Realizing her point, he sighed and shook his head. "It would be _improper,_ " he insisted, already knowing she wasn't going to accept that as an answer. Sure enough, she tugged at his arm again and too tired to argue with her, he finally pulled away. " _Fine._ But keep to your side of the bed, understand? You'll wake me up if you touch me and if you think I'm a crabby person now, just wait until you see me without adequate sleep."

She seemed satisfied by this answer, settling down in the bed and watching as he did the same, still in his shirt and pants but having lost the jacket and tie. No way in hell was he sleeping as he normally did next to her, that would make this even more improper than it already was.

Once he was as comfortable as he could be given the situation, he closed his eyes, folding his hands against his stomach. "Now turn off the light and _go to sleep_."


	3. Godiva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47's new companion is discovered by Diana, which leads to some interesting questions about the mysterious woman's background.

It had only been a week since he rescued her. He had decided that he couldn't just save her life and rescue her from her captor and then leave her when she didn't seem to have anywhere else to go, and so he had decided that for the time being, he would bring her home with him. It was only going to be temporary, until he could figure something else out, but for now, he had to keep her hidden; until the grand fuck-up of killing Dorfman blew over, she was still in danger.

He had learned within the first day that she was more than just a quiet person. Any attempts he had made of trying to talk to her had proved futile, with her only smiling, nodding or shaking her head, or gesturing in response. The persistent silence and the fact that she hadn't cried out at all when Dorfman was attacking her said it all; she was mute, incapable of speaking.

On the one hand, the woman being mute was almost a godsend; she couldn't possibly tell anyone what had happened in Dorfman's lab, and she wouldn't make any extraneous noise that might alert people to the fact that she was here. But on the other hand, figuring out just who she was and why the hell Dorfman had been pimping her for research grants was a lot more difficult now.

Still, the fact that she wasn't chatty and was perfectly content to spend an evening in total silence was a good thing. He liked silence, even more so when he was waiting for the smoke to clear. He hadn't heard from Diana since he had been evacuated, and while he didn't expect much of a penalty for killing the man, he had been a non-target. The files had been sent on their way as soon as he had landed, and he had smuggled the woman to his home without too much incident.

But that meant that Diana had no idea about her. For the moment, he didn't want her to; the lecture he was expecting upon Diana finding out was not something he was in any rush to hear, though it wasn't like she had any right to. Not after that business with Victoria.

One good thing about the woman being quiet was that he never thought twice about leaving her on her own for a while. Being incapable of speech didn't mean she couldn't understand the situation, and he had explained to her from the beginning that she couldn't be seen here. If for any reason there was a knock on the door, or it sounded like someone else was in the apartment, she was to hide somewhere and not come out until he said so. Because of this, he didn't see anything wrong with taking a shower and leaving her on her own for the ten minutes it would take him.

Showering was one of the few pleasures in life he still had. It may have been considered a necessity, but really a hot shower was like a luxury, soothing away the stress, tense muscles and general boredom that came between contracts. He'd never had need of a social life, and the majority of his spare time was spent just training and honing his skills as an assassin and invisible infiltrator. But showering, that was something that was both necessary and relaxing.

Or at least, it should have been.

He had just started to relax when he could hear the bathroom door opening. Already he could feel his muscles tensing and that little vein in his forehead throbbing; he hated being interrupted at anything, but especially a shower. He had just been about to poke his head out and tell the woman off when he heard a voice, and knowing now that it couldn't possibly be her, he stayed put.

"Who... you?" were the only words he managed to make out over the sound of the water, but it was the tone of voice, the inflection, that made him realize who it was - and it only made him tense up even more.

_Diana..._

"Quit... games! Who.. you and what... here?"

He had to resist the urge to groan, instead turning the water off in the shower and sliding the glass door aside to poke his head out. "Do you two mind?" he barked.

"47," Diana greeted him, a gun pointed at the woman who this time actually looked scared. "I think your security leaves something to be desired. I found her in your kitchen with a knife."

 _Perfect._ "It's alright, Diana," he sighed, shaking his head. "She's not here to kill me, or anyone for that matter."

"So she's a _friend_ of yours?" Diana asked, raising an eyebrow. She did lower the gun, but the look she was shooting in his direction was enough to make him want to shrink back into the shower.

"It's not what it looks like. Would somebody hand me a towel?"

Diana gave a cheeky smirk, crossing her arms. It was just like her to find mirth and merriment in catching a man in the shower, particularly one she had known for so long.

The woman, on the other hand, grabbed the towel off the rack nearby and held it out to him, never taking her eyes off of Diana, even if the threat of the gun no longer applied.

He ducked back into the shower long enough to cover his modesty, then carefully stepped out, putting himself between the woman and Diana.

"So tell me, 47. What is she doing here?"

He sighed again, idly rubbing the back of his head. "I rescued her. From the Dorfman contract."

"Dorfman?" Diana repeated. "Is she the reason you killed him?"

"Yes. He had her chained up in some kind of storage room. I didn't intend to save her, because she isn't my concern. But she tried to help me, she even hid me when Dorfman came. Once he started beating on her, I couldn't just let him live. Harming the innocent is inexcusable."

Diana shook her head, turning away. "It's not like you to have a heart, 47. Get dressed, then we'll talk."

It was the one thing about Diana he really hated - the way she'd treat him like a disobedient child. She may have been his handler but she didn't have any power over him, contrary to what she may have believed.

"It's alright," he told the woman, turning to her. "She won't hurt you. Now get out of here."

The woman seemed apprehensive, but she did leave the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her. He got himself dressed as quickly as possible, finally coming out to the kitchen where he found the woman doing what he suspected she had been when Diana came in - cooking. Diana, on the other hand, was sitting at the small dining table, tapping her nails against it impatiently.

"Spare me the lecture, Diana," he finally said as he came over to the table, sitting down across from her. "I know it's risky keeping her here."

"I'm more concerned with why she didn't just tell me herself that you had brought her here," Diana stated.

"She can't. I mean physically, she can't."

"I see. Sometimes trauma victims lose the ability to speak, so it does make some sort of sense I suppose, as well as lend credence to your story. I've never known you to be a liar, 47, at least not to me, so I'll believe you that Dorfman was keeping her prisoner. But why?"

"Based on what he said before he attacked her, she was the reason he was getting so much money for his research. Using her to seduce anyone wealthy and stupid enough."

"Hm." Diana shifted in her chair, and based on the sound of her shoes scuffling across the floor he guessed she was crossing her legs. "But you've no idea who she is?"

"No," he admitted. "Even if she could tell me, I never even asked her. Who she is doesn't really matter."

"I'm sure it matters to someone, 47. She doesn't seem to be related to Dorfman in any way, or he wouldn't have used her for such a purpose."

"The collar she had on her neck when I found her said 'Godiva'. I guess that's probably her name."

"Godiva?" Diana looked shocked for a moment, then her face seemed to relax into her neutral expression.

"Why is that significant?"

"Well... intel that we have on Dorfman talks about a secret government project he had been working on for the Soviets about 30 years ago. The aim was to create 'the perfect woman', aesthetically perfect and with all the qualities the project leaders thought desirable. But according to the files, none of the subjects survived and the project was cancelled."

"What does that have to do with her?"

"It was called the Godiva Project. And you have to admit, she is quite strikingly beautiful."

"I hadn't noticed. You think she's somehow connected to the Godiva Project?"

"I don't know, 47. For all we know it's a coincidence and there's no correlation at all. If it is true, though..."

He raised an eyebrow, staring at her expectantly. "Then what?"

"Then you may have stumbled upon the only woman in the world who can understand you."

"Funny. What are you _really_ thinking, Diana?"

"I was thinking that if she really is a survivor of the Godiva Project, there's a good chance that someone is looking for her - and willing to kill to get their hands on her."

"Then there's no problem." He leaned back slightly in his chair as the woman came over, setting down a plate of fried noodles and vegetables in front of him. "I'm willing to kill to keep their hands off of her." He turned his head to glance up at the woman, taking one good solid look at her face while he had the opportunity. "Thank you."

Diana gave him an odd sort of look, then found herself leaning back in her chair as a second plate of food was placed in front of her. "Oh, for me? I wouldn't want to impose-"

"She gets upset if you refuse," he interrupted, already using his fork to separate some of the noodles so he wasn't consuming giant clumps of pasta. "I learned that the hard way. She's actually not a bad cook though, you might as well just eat it."

 

*             *             *

 

Later that evening, after Diana had finished playing twenty questions and left, he had found himself questioning all sorts of things about the woman he had saved. Diana's line of questioning had opened up a few more questions than he had originally had, but with the woman's mutism, he somehow doubted he would ever find out the answers. That didn't stop them from nagging at him, however, and after unsuccessfully trying to push them from his mind with his usual evening exercise of cleaning his weapons, he decided he had to at least try to get some information out of her.

He found her easily enough, as there weren't any hiding places in the apartment that he didn't already know about, and she generally didn't try to hide from him. The only time he was ever aware that she was going out of her way not to be noticed by him was around the time he was eating - he had never once seen her eat, but he knew that she did, as he often would find her washing more dishes than he remembered using. He wasn't sure why she would be so secretive about her eating habits, but ultimately had decided it wasn't important and never bothered trying to catch her in the act.

She was laying across the bed in the bedroom when he came upon her, apparently reading a musty old hardcover book she had discovered somewhere. He himself didn't read all that often, but he had been aware that there were books around the apartment, left behind by the previous tenant. She looked up at him as he came in, then automatically pulled herself onto her knees, sitting back against her feet and regarding him with an inquisitive sort of look.

"You were scared of Diana," he stated, leaning against the doorframe as he recalled the look on her face when he had discovered the two of them in his bathroom. "Anyone would be scared when someone points a gun at them; but I did the same thing when we first met. And you weren't _scared_ then."

She chewed her lip a little, then gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. It was fair enough really; it wasn't easy to explain things when you couldn't speak.

"You were worried that she was going to take you away from me, weren't you?" he asked, crossing his arms.

She bowed her head slightly, giving a faint nod and clasping her hands together in her lap.

"Was she right?" he finally asked, pushing off from the doorway and uncrossing his arms as he approached her, hoping to appear less intimidating. "Are you related to the Godiva Project?"

She looked pained for a moment, but she didn't nod or shake her head, giving no concrete answer. Interpreting it as reluctance, he reached out and took her by the chin, firmly but not forcefully making her look up at him.

"Your name _is_ Godiva, isn't it?"

Her eyes flicking left and right, she gave a few sharp blinks before nodding as best as she could. She then reached up and gently wrapped her hand around his wrist, not trying to take his hand away but showing that she wasn't attempting to deceive him, judging by the pleading look in her eyes.

"But you're not sure," he surmised, releasing her face and flicking his wrist to jar her hand loose. "You don't know if you're related to the Godiva Project or not. Maybe you'd never even heard of it until Diana mentioned it; I know I never had."

Again she looked pained, and instinctively he knew he was wrong. She _did_ know, she knew all too well, but something about the Project upset her. He could already guess that whatever Dorfman had done to conceal her hadn't been pretty, but perhaps there was more to it than just that.

"I need to know," he insisted. " _Are_ you the result of the Godiva Project, yes or no?"

She took in a shuddering breath, unclasping her hands to grip at the bottom of her dress - a new one he had bought for her, and according to Diana, the reason she had come by in the first place. Finally she nodded, her eyes shut tightly against whatever horrors were still haunting her to this day.

"Then Diana was right; somebody's probably looking for you now that Dorfman is dead."

When she opened her eyes again, she crawled toward the edge of the bed, reaching one arm out for him while the other kept her balanced on the bed.

"No, I won't let them find you," he promised, though he leaned away from her hand. "But now we'll have to be even more careful, do you understand? You're lucky it was only Diana who snuck up on you, if it had been anyone else, they could have killed you or taken you and I wouldn't have known."

She gave a nod to show that she did understand, but again she tried to reach for him. He opted to let her, surprised that she only put her palm flat against his chest, as if feeling for his heartbeat. When she found it, she relaxed, eventually sitting back on her feet again.

"Worried that I'm some kind of monster?" he asked, partly joking but not entirely understanding why his heartbeat seemed so important to her.

She shook her head, smiling softly to herself as she folded her hands over her own chest, feeling her own heartbeat. Following that, she looked up at him again, tilting her head, as if to ask if he understood.

"I'm afraid I don't comprehend," he told her, sitting down on the end of the bed - in front of her, but far enough away that he wasn't touching her in any way. "But if that eased your fears, that's fine. Now I just need to know - oof!"

He tensed and nearly lashed out when he felt arms on his shoulders, bending forwards from the sudden force but managing to stop himself before he could hurt her. He could feel her heartbeat through her breasts as they pressed into his back, and he glanced over his shoulder at her.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Never come at me from behind, I could have killed you!"

Regardless, she still seemed unafraid, draping her arms over his shoulders and wrapped around his chest, one hand clasping her wrist.

"There's no need for gratitude," he bristled. "I saved you so you wouldn't be hurt again, letting them get to you now would render my efforts pointless."

Still she persisted, only pressing against him more, and finally he sighed, letting her do as she wished even though the proximity was making him uncomfortable.

"Godiva or not, you're still a woman."


	4. When Inches Become Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47 is forced to leave Godiva behind as he carries out his next mission, but his newfound concern for her nearly costs him his life.

A few things had changed since he had met Godiva. His regular life of routine and solitude had been disrupted from the first day, and while he didn't exactly mind - routine was fine, but monotony was not - he was finding more and more that it was becoming difficult to function normally.

Having the option of refusing contracts had never really been something he considered a convenience until it was taken away. Now he no longer had that luxury; he had Godiva to take care of, and he didn't have an infinite supply of contracts which meant he was living on a sizable, but still limited income. The barebones apartment be damned, he had been accustomed to living the expensive life for some time. Even just buying a few things for Godiva to wear had been costly, and as he now knew, sending up red flags to anyone who was monitoring his bank accounts. Like Diana, who thankfully had been content with his explanation.

When his next contract had come in, he had actually toyed with the idea of refusing it. There were few contracts he actually would refuse, since there was a reason he was considered the best assassin money could buy. He _was_ the best; cold and silent, ruthless in his pursuit and usually with a pretty clean execution and getaway - he was in and out without anyone noticing, most of the time. Yes, the Dorfman contract had been a mess, but he hadn't gone in there intending to rescue Godiva, he hadn't even known about her until after he'd been caught. And that had been a fluke, he thought.

Even after he had accepted the contract he had doubts. Not about his ability, far from it - killing was second nature to him, he took no pleasure in it but felt no remorse for doing it either. No, his doubts stemmed from Godiva; would she be safe while he was gone? Would she understand why he had to leave her behind? What if she needed something while he was gone and he wasn't there to help?

_I can't waste time like this,_ he scolded himself mentally, checking his weapon for what must have been the twelfth time. Satisfied that it was completely in order, he holstered it inside his jacket and climbed out of the car, staring up at the building in front of him.

It looked like any other hotel you'd find in any country across the world. Drab and boring on the outside, but the inside housing hundreds of shady business deals, secret trysts between secret lovers (which sometimes were also shady business deals), and people wishing that they were home instead of here. That was just the nature of hotels, but this one in particular was housing someone that needed to die. Someone that wasn't even aware that there was a price on their life, and a pretty hefty price at that. Perfection demanded a high price, and he was perfection. Usually.

Checking into the hotel was pretty easy. Some falsified identification - he was 'Mr. Cartwright' this time - and paying in cash made it child's play to get in, the only issue was with getting out after the deed was done. The public nature of a hotel meant that hiding the body was a necessity, so he could get the hell out before the body was discovered, but it also meant that the easy way of taking his target out was off the table. Still, there was more than one way to skin a rabbit.

He had let the bellhop, with his ill-fitting trousers and jittery demeanour lead him to his room, and he tipped the boy well, not out of magnanimity but to make sure he would remember it. It was important for all of the staff to remember Mr. Cartwright very well, because he was going to be disappearing shortly.

He'd already used the guest register to figure out which room his target was in, and with that number in his head - 1206 - he started planning the hit out in his mind. Would he sneak into the room and garrote him quickly and easily? Perhaps he would. Or perhaps he would await his target outside the hotel, kill him, leave the body to be found and retire safely back to his hotel so the staff would remember him _leaving_ as well as arriving. Then again, there were a lot more places to hide a body inside the hotel rather than outside. Decisions, decisions.

As usual, his first instinct won out over the more creative ways that he managed to come up with. Making the death look like an accident would mean he didn't have any excuse to rush his exit, which would have been preferable were it not for the fact that he wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible. He stayed quietly in his room for maybe an hour before he set about the task of finding a way into 1206. He himself was a floor down, in a completely separate wing, so that did complicate things somewhat, but not enough to shake his confidence.

He strode purposefully through the hallways of the hotel, trying to avoid the eyes of other guests he passed by as he counted out the ways he could get into the room. He could climb in a window, pick the lock on the door, take out a member of the staff and pretend to be housekeeping... the sky was the limit here, and when you had been doing this for as long as he had, the ways to kill someone just threw themselves at you in rapid succession, leaving you to choose whichever means suited your fancy. But he didn't really have the luxury of time now.

Getting up to the twelfth floor would be a piece of cake. Getting up there unnoticed and without raising anyone's suspicions on the other hand, that was the kind of artistry that only came with years of experience. The kind of artistry he was being paid for, the kind he trained almost religiously to be able to carry out with flawless precision. The elevator wouldn't raise anyone's suspicions, but he'd surely be noticed, while the stairwells provided a sort of anonymity since nobody really used stairs anymore. Not in this age of entitlement.

_Remind me never to stay in this hotel recreationally,_ he thought as he let himself into the stairwell, finding it completely empty as he had suspected. _Too many ways to get caught off your guard, too many ways to get in and out, and too much money to pay for a hotel room that size._ As he made his way up the stairs, he found himself slowly falling into his old routines for a kill. Counting the stairs was one such routine; there was no real reason to do it, but it gave him a sense of stability and precision. One, two, hitman's coming for you...

Exiting the stairwell on the twelfth floor, he took a quick glance at the numbers on the doors nearby, spotting a maid doing her rounds nearby. It wasn't her business to know which room belong to whom, so he didn't see much threat in her, and passed by her wordlessly, focusing on his target. Down these halls and just a little to the left, 1206 would be about halfway down one corridor. When he found it, he listened carefully for sounds of motion inside - it wouldn't be so bad if the target wasn't in right now, but it would be better in the long run if he was. He could faintly hear a man coughing from inside, and were it in his nature he might have grinned sinisterly. Three, four,  standing at your door...

Rather than walk in guns blazing, he took just a few more steps to the left, stopping outside room 1205 and listening. He could hear the shower running here, and as his hand wrapped around the doorknob he was already picturing how this hit was going to go. Sneak into the room, climb out the window, shimmy across a ledge, climb into 1206. Surprise the target, kill him quickly, hide the body and walk out the door, calm and collected and mission complete.

It was almost like muscle memory. Picking the lock to the door, slipping quietly into the room and climbing out the window. He didn't even bother climbing up on the ledge that connected to the windowsill, just shimmied his way across it and with a bit of effort, opened the window of 1206, hauling himself through it.

But there was nobody. The bed was made and didn't look like it had been slept in, or the maid had been round and made it. But where was the target? He was sure he had heard him coughing, but the door to the bathroom was wide open and clearly empty. So where the hell had he gone?

After taking a quick glance around the room, he was just at the door and ready to leave when he heard movement behind him. He turned so quickly he pulled a muscle in his neck and only managed to catch a brief glimpse of the target before the man's forehead crashed into him, hitting him squarely in the nose and sending him stumbling backwards, into the door which rattled loudly.

"Thought you'd got the jump on me, huh?" the man rasped, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and pulling him forward. "You fucked up, cue ball."

 Before he could even reach for the gun, he was thrown toward the bed and fell forward onto it, scrambling to grab hold of the blankets and try to pull himself up onto it, but the target was on him in seconds, one hand grabbing his head like a claw while the other arm snaked around his neck. A sleeper hold, and usually he was the one giving them.

Thinking quickly, he reached back and pinched just below the target's posterior, and the sudden shock paid off enough that the man loosened his grip, giving him the opportunity he needed to break free, grabbing the lamp off the bedside table and whirling around to smash it against the target's head.

While the lamp only really succeeded in dazing the man, it was enough for him to get in behind him and take hold of the man's head, wasting no time in snapping his neck and ending this little show of machismo in short order. With the hit successfully carried out, he glanced around the room once more looking for a hiding place. Finding none, he realized his only options were to leave him here and hope nobody had heard the scuffle, or drop the man out the window. Snapping his neck meant that it could look almost like a suicide, which would cover his tracks nicely...

Lugging the man over to the window made his arms feel tired, and he was thankful he wouldn't have to shimmy along the ledge a second time. He folded him carefully over the windowsill, took a moment to regain his bearings, and then with a quick push, the man was plummeting down, down...

Right into a suspended platform, complete with two workmen painting the exterior. Immediately they looked up, and there he was, peering out the window like a giant bald gargoyle. Now he'd been caught _again,_ and his mock suicide was blown. Five, six, what the fuck is this?

He didn't have much choice now. The two men were innocent of any wrongdoing but they were witnesses, and he had to take them out. The hard-hats they were wearing probably weren't bulletproof, but it saved on ammunition to just shoot out one of the pulleys and let them fall to their deaths, along with the target.

They screamed on the way down, which was something of an added bonus he figured. Suicides usually screamed on the way down, didn't they? Well, now the morbid ghouls who would rush to their windows to see what was going on would have their scream, and to all else it would look like a man jumped out a window, broke the platform on the way down and took two innocent men down with him. Mission accomplished.

As he left 1206 he couldn't help but wonder to himself. How had he not noticed the workmen were there? Normally he was so vigilant he could hear a mouse fart, but this time he somehow managed to miss two men painting the exterior of the building. And what the hell had he been thinking, sticking his head out the window to watch? Dump the body and get out, that was the procedure and he had fucked up again. And perhaps the biggest question on his mind, how in the hell had the target known he was coming?

_I'm off my game,_ he realized as he slipped quietly back into his hotel room. _I was too busy thinking about Godiva that I didn't focus enough on the kill._ He sighed, scratching the back of his head. _What's wrong with me? When did I become so concerned about her well-being that I can't do my job?_

Mistakes were costly. At least he had cleaned up the mess reasonably well, but already he knew Diana would be concerned. He was slipping, and this was the second mission in a row he had managed to mess up. And yet even still, he was more worried about Godiva than the aftermath of this mess. 


	5. Band-aid Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angry and ashamed at his failure, 47 sends Godiva to the only other safe place he knows - Diana Burnwood's home.

She had to go. That was the only option, he felt.

During his return trip after the shambles that was his last contract, he had come to place the blame entirely on Godiva. She may not have been present at the time, but that was exactly the problem; her not being there had caused him to become compromised. He had been too busy thinking about her, too worried about her safety that he had fucked up again, and it was out of sheer luck that he'd managed to get away with it. And he didn't like relying on luck.

When he had arrived back home, all it took was one look at her before he made the decision. She was the very picture of harmless innocence, sitting on the floor making origami frogs out of scrap paper she found to amuse herself. When she saw him standing in the doorway, her eyes lit up and a smile spread across her face as she stood up,  coming towards him.

"You're no good to me," he told her, grabbing her by the wrist and starting to lead her outside - something she resisted, though he suspected it was only because he had instructed her previously never to go outside. He had to drag her all the way down to his car - 'his' because it was the one he was using for now - and a flicker of guilt sparked in him as he shoved her into the passenger seat.

Though the drive had been quiet, he could feel her puzzled and frightened stares. In his mind, he had explained himself as much as he needed to, but she probably had no idea what he had even meant by that. It was better she didn't; he didn't allow anyone to have that kind of power over him, of knowing he actually had emotions, let alone that sometimes those emotions were toward specific people.

It had been a long drive, one that Godiva had fallen asleep for eventually, but when he arrived, it was still perfectly fresh in his mind what he planned to do. He parked the car far enough away that he wasn't visible from the doors, climbed out, and once again commenced to drag Godiva by the wrist toward his destination. This time she didn't struggle.

He must have looked quite bizarre indeed, dragging her along toward this building, this palatial sort of house in the middle of nowhere. It didn't look like the sort of place where you had to drag anyone, yet there he was, dragging this strange woman he had found one day. But not toward the front door, oh no. This was through the gardens and toward the side door.

When he pushed the sliding glass door aside, he only moved it enough that they could slip through, with him forcing her inside first and following shortly after. He closed the door quietly behind him - more out of habit than necessity - and led her toward a large sitting area overlooking the vast garden they had just traversed, pushing her down into a chair.

"Stay here," he commanded, moving back toward the narrow hallway he had come from and withdrawing his trusted Silverballer from his jacket, ejecting the magazine and counting the rounds inside. Fifteen, just as he had recalled from the last time he counted them, and as he slammed the magazine back into the gun, he turned to look at her once again.

"47?"

He whipped around, the gun drawn and pointed at the face of Diana. How he had been so shocked to find her here was a mystery - it _was_ her house after all. Then again, he had learned before that you never kept your back to her - she had stabbed him in the back once before, he wouldn't put it past her to do it again once she realized what he was up to.

"Is something wrong?" Diana asked, reaching up and lowering the gun with her own hands. He let her, since for now he had no reason to shoot her.

"Keep her safe," he told her, secreting the gun back into his jacket and pushing past her for the door.

"But why-"

He didn't bother to listen anymore. He slipped back out into the garden and took his leave before she could get it into her head to follow him - both Diana _and_ Godiva. It was the sort of thing women did - inserted themselves into that which was not their business and needlessly complicate things that should have been simple.

As he returned to the car, he was already finding himself thinking of Godiva. He scowled at nothing at all, climbing into the car and just sitting behind the wheel for a moment, collecting his thoughts. She was Diana's problem now, it had nothing to do with him. She was gone, out of his life and he could go back to functioning like he normally did. He'd been perfectly fine before he met her and he would be perfectly fine again now that she wasn't a constant presence in the back of his mind. Or at least, she _wouldn't_ be any longer.

After a good twenty minutes of just sitting there in the car, scowling down at the steering wheel and lost in his own head, he gave an exasperated sigh and turned the key in the ignition, starting the engine and taking one final look at Diana's house before pulling away from it, turning the car around and starting to head back home.

He just had to forget about her, that was all. He should never have gotten involved in the first place, he had known that at the time but hadn't been able to stop himself. And now look at what had happened! Messy contracts, uncharacteristic thoughts and actions, buying women's clothing; these were things that 47 disliked, and yet they were all a reality the past couple of weeks. Though really, he had to admit that the worst part about it all was that he'd had nobody to blame for it but himself.

Godiva hadn't asked to be rescued. He must have gone over that first time meeting her in his head a thousand times, and the one jarring fact that remained true was that she had in no way coerced him into rescuing her. He could have left her there, underneath the dead body of her creator - hell, he could have just let Dorfman do whatever diabolical and sick thing he intended to do that day and just slipped out when he was gone. All she had done was try to help, it had been his decision alone to kill Dorfman and take her away. Everything that followed, therefore, was his fault entirely.

More scowling at the steering wheel, and he was aware of how tightly he was gripping it but couldn't find it in himself to stop. Twice since he had left Diana's he had thought of turning around, going back and retrieving Godiva. It wasn't her fault, none of it was. But he forced himself to keep going, hoping that this was just some sort of bizarre fascination and infatuation with her, and removing her from the picture would cure him of it. All he needed was his old way of life back, where he depended only upon the knowledge that somewhere, somebody was willing to pay big money to have someone killed.  That was his livelihood, and the only woman he needed to associate with was his handler - and only in the sense that she arranged his contracts, wired the money and gave him the information. No need to see her in person, no need to visit her, and no damn need to feed and clothe her, either.

Godiva was still on his mind when he finally reached home, and that was partly because he'd neglected one rather important thing in his haste to get her the hell out of his life - all of her things were still here. The things he had bought for her, no less. Her origami frogs were still sitting there on the floor, her clothing was still hanging in the closet, and there was probably still strands of hair sitting on the pillow she slept on. He'd have to get the clothes to Diana eventually, that much was self evident, but there was no way in hell he was going back to that house. That created the risk of him seeing her again, the whole process likely beginning a second time, and that was something he couldn't afford.

Still, he had to get rid of it - he'd never get over this ridiculous obsession he had with her if he still had to look at her clothes and her origami frogs and whatever other trivial little things were laying around that would only remind him of her. He quickly made his way to the bedroom, going into the closet and doing his best to ignore the clothes that clearly weren't his as he grabbed a suitcase from the top shelf, tossing it back onto the bed. Then he grabbed up every article of clothing that was hers - including one of his own shirts that had _become_ hers when he allowed her to wear it that first day. As he had worried at the time, he hadn't been able to wear it since, knowing that she had been naked beneath it.

He whipped all of the dresses out of the closet in one fell swoop, bringing them to the suitcase and not even taking the time to fold them properly, just stuffing them unceremoniously into the suitcase and bunching them all up so they weren't hanging out the sides. Following that, he gathered up the things he could recall commonly seeing her with - the few books she had managed to find, her pillow, some decorative glass rocks she had taken to fiddling around with, and of course, the origami frogs.  Into the suitcase they went, and once he had shut the lid and zipped it up, he quickly carried it to the front door, setting it aside for now. He'd have a courier or something take it to Diana's; that was the best way.

*             *             *

It hadn't even been two hours since he returned home that the phone started ringing. And he knew only one person had that number  - one who was still alive, anyway - so it didn't even occur to him to pick it up. He rarely ever felt like talking, and now definitely wasn't one of those times. Now, when he felt embarrassed, ashamed, angry and confused all at once. Now, when he was still thinking about Godiva and worrying about her. And that shamed him, too.

Eventually, though, the incessant ringing was beyond a minor annoyance and becoming a major problem. He had enough trouble concentrating right now, and clearly the phone calls were just going to keep coming until one of them gave in. He hated being the one to give in, it just further made the woman feel like she had any kind of power over him. But that was the problem, he realized; she did have one power over him. The power of knowing how to annoy him to the point of wanting to kill her.

"What?" he growled into the phone, after he finally picked it up, and hating himself for giving in first.

"You tell me, 47," Diana retorted, and for a moment she actually sounded _angry._ He couldn't recall ever hearing her sound angry - annoyed, yes, but never _angry._

"Tell you _what,_ Diana? I told you what you needed to know; keep her safe."

"But _why,_ 47? Don't you think she'd be much safer with you?"

He found himself groaning audibly, not wanting to admit that yes, he _did_ think Godiva would be safer with him. "I never question your orders, Diana. I'd appreciate if you'd extend me the same courtesy."

"I don't work for _you_ , 47. And I think if I'm going to take your strange new friend in, the least you can do is tell me _why._ "

Another groan, and seeing that this conversation was ultimately circular until he told her what she wanted, he gave in. Again. "She's compromising me, Diana. I bungled the last job, too."

"Did you? As far as I could tell, the target was ruled a suicide and the others were collateral damage as a result of it. You got away clean."

"I was _lucky,_ " he sighed. "Lubov hit that platform, but he didn't take it down with him. They _saw_ me."

"So? You took care of it," she pointed out.

"What do you mean, 'so'? That's two jobs in a _row,_ Diana, doesn't that strike you as an anomaly?"

Diana was quiet for a moment, then she too sighed. "Yes, I'm rather afraid it does, 47. But what does it have to do with her?"

"It has _everything_ to do with her! I was too busy worrying about her and her safety, and the target got the drop on me. If it weren't for her, this would have been routine, just business as usual, but I couldn't - I _can't_ get her out of my head! Even now, I'm worrying about her safety! I just can't do this, Diana, she's taken over my thoughts in the worst way."

"It sounds more to me like you want her in the worst way."

"It's not like that!"

"Isn't it? If she is part of Godiva, then she's at least thirty years old - hardly a child. Defenseless? Somehow, I'm not so sure about that. So what's left besides attraction?"

"I'm not built that way, you know that. I've no need for sex or romance, or women in general."

"Just because you've never been in love _before_ doesn't mean you're incapable of it, 47."

"Love? Don't be ridiculous. I'm done talking to you; just keep her safe, I don't care if that means shipping her out of the country - in fact I'd prefer it. Knowing where she is isn't helping me any."

He could hear Diana protesting as he disconnected the call, and just to be sure there were no further interruptions, he pulled the battery out of the phone afterward. Then the phone went into a drawer, and the drawer was locked, and it was only because the phone was necessary that he didn't throw away the key. Otherwise, it would be gone and this chapter of his life would be closed.

Still, even as he lay down alone in his bed that night, he knew it wasn't closed. Thoughts of Godiva kept creeping in; that first night, when she refused to sleep alone. The way she would sit on the edge of the bed and watch him creepily until he woke up; he knew this because every morning, without fail, she was staring at him. It had startled him the first few times, but he had since gotten used to it.

And that was what really scared him now; he had gotten _used_ to it. Come to expect it, even. His protection was only supposed to be temporary, but he had gotten _used_ to it. Accustomed to it, to her. Fuck, he'd even figured out ways of communicating with her nonverbally.

_She's not my problem anymore,_ he tried to remind himself, if only so he could relax enough to sleep. _Let Diana deal with her now._

But even as he started slowly drifting off, not relaxed but exhausted enough that his body was beginning to give in, he found himself wishing, _hoping,_ that Diana wouldn't send her away.


	6. No Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having distanced himself from Godiva, 47 succeeds in his next mission without fault. But that just raises even more questions than it answers.

It had been two and a half weeks since removing Godiva from his life that his next contract came in. In a lot of ways, this was abnormal; typically he could go for months at a time without a contract, but since his departure from the Agency and now working as a sort of private contractor through Diana meant that occasionally, he did end up with back-to-back contracts like this. Lately, he had been getting contracts in regular two-week intervals, and even though the last two had gone almost completely to pot, clearly he was still impressing _someone._

Diana had been oddly sketchy on the details, which struck him as slightly out of character for her. Normally, her descriptions of a target told him everything he needed to know; no more and no less. But this time, he felt as though she were purposely leaving something out, like there was a reason this target was so important that he wasn't allowed to know. it wasn't as though he was the kind of person to pass judgement on his targets; he was just doing his job, and that was why, in his opinion, he was so good at it. It was never _personal._ The few and far between times his kills had been personal, Diana hadn't orchestrated them.

Still, he arrived at the location early and spent some time scouting. First things first, you identified your exit strategy, as well as two backups. Most assassins had one backup, if any at all, but 47 had always prided himself on planning for every eventuality. And with that out of the way, he started identifying the environmental factors; being a ghost meant you tried not to leave a trace of yourself, and the more convincingly you could make a death look like an accident, the better. It wasn't as though he blended in all that easily, so killing from a distance with something in the environment was kind of his modus operandi. And usually it served him well, though there was always the possibility of failure. He couldn't remember any specific times, but he still had to consider it a plausible outcome, no matter how unlikely.

Eventually, he had chosen a more direct route. It had always amused him how hired grunts posing as guards were so incredibly easy to sneak up on, with or without the use of a distraction, and he had disguised himself as a guard so easily he almost felt like it was _too_ easy. But for him, it usually was too easy; having done this for so long, you either got good at it or you got killed by your own overconfidence.

He followed the target at a distance for a while, and once he felt they were about as secluded as they were going to get, he moved in for the kill. But no sooner had he taken his trusty fibre wire from his pocket, the man turned around, and as soon as 47 saw his face, he froze.

 _A decoy,_ he realized. _Looks like my cover's  blown._

"Why the hell are you following me?" the man asked, sounding both unimpressed and pretty scared. Whoever he was, chances were he wasn't hired by the target, just simply unfortunate enough to _look_ like him.

"Don't flatter yourself," 47 stated simply, putting the fibre wire back into his pocket and continuing to move forward, as though he had intended on heading this way all along.

Miraculously, that seemed to work, and as the man headed off in the opposite direction, 47 hid himself behind a wall, consulting his mental map of the place he had made during his earlier scouting. There was no way of knowing where exactly the target was now, but if he could just get to the right vantage point...

*             *             *

It took some time, but eventually he managed to track the real target down again. Now back in his signature suit, he watched with morbid fascination as the man tried to nonchalantly duck into a museum, as thought the public location would afford him any cover. If anything, it just made it that much easier for 47 to get to him; that was the problem with public places. _Anyone_ could get in.

After entering the museum, he gave the target the standard 30 yard tail, but with a bit of a twist. Before he could get too aware of the fact that he was being followed, 47 would detour, and if he'd had the luxury of time he may have spent some time enjoying the artworks on display. Instead, he enjoyed the cat and mouse game they were playing, and eventually he had managed to shepherd the poor fool into going exactly where he wanted him to. By appearing in the place his target was heading, it was easy to cajole him into going a different way, until finally he had no options but to go into a large room with a high ceiling that was home to a large collection of stone statues.

Having hidden himself behind a relatively large statue, 47 lay patiently in wait, until that perfect moment struck. A quick nudge, followed by a more forceful push and the giant statue went crashing forward, and the man only got out the first inkling of a scream of terror before the statue crushed him beneath it. There was a satisfying crack of bones, followed by a rapid pooling of blood around the stone and flesh mess and just like that, the target was down, and he wasn't getting up any time soon. The noise, however, gave him a limited amount of time to accomplish the secondary objective, which in turn made him hurry over to the body - or what was left of it - and fish out the dead man's cellphone. The screen was cracked beyond repair, but the phone wasn't what was required. And after easily removing the back plate, he withdrew the SIM card and placed it into his breast pocket, before calmly strolling out the emergency exit door.

_Isn't technology marvelous..._

Once outside, 47 waited until he was a fair distance away from the scene before calling Diana, finding that the line rang a good three times before she answered.

"It's done," he stated bluntly, occasionally glancing off to the sides to make sure he wasn't being observed.

"Well done, 47. No problems this time?"

He bristled at the implication, but he had to admit that given recent events, it was a valid concern for her to have. "No, nothing," he assured her. "Identifying the body may prove difficult, however."

"That's no concern of ours," Diana replied. "I'll send a car to pick you up."

"Don't bother," 47 interjected. "I have another matter that requires my attention."

"As you wish, 47. I'll be in touch."

He didn't even offer a parting word before disconnecting the call. He did have another matter that required his attention, a sort of loose end that needed to be taken care of. And that loose end was currently hiding out at Diana's place, and it was better for her if she wasn't aware of his interference. She might give the whole thing away to the wrong party, and that would make the whole thing much more difficult than it really needed to be.

Because that loose end? It was Godiva. He needed to know how and why she had started fucking things up for him, what purpose it served to make him start failing at everything he knew.  Who was _really_ pulling the strings? Was Godiva acting on her own, or was she sent by another to put a wedge in the works? And if the latter, _who?_ Who would benefit besides anybody who might become a target in the future? Even he didn't know who his next target was going to be; hell, Diana wouldn't even know. But now, knowing that Diana was alone with Godiva, who might somehow be part of a conspiracy to destroy them, it made him very nervous.

Or was that anxiety at the fact that he would have to see Godiva again, now that he had proved to himself and Diana that she was the cause of his recent failures? Was he more worried that Diana might get hurt, or that seeing Godiva again would set the whole downfall in motion once again, now that he had only just managed to prevent it? It was difficult to tell.

Still, there was no going around it. It had to be done, and he had never been one to shy away from doing something just because he didn't feel good about it. It was rare enough to feel anything at all about what he was doing, but just because now he'd had some sort of epiphany didn't change what needed to be done.

It was time to deal with Godiva.


	7. The Intolerable Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47 returns to Diana's mansion to confront Godiva, but the interrogation takes an interesting turn when he realizes they have some unlikely common ground.

It was already late in the night when 47 arrived at Diana's estate, and most - though not all - of the lights were out. Diana herself was probably long since asleep, but he knew from experience that her impromptu house guest probably was not. She had refused from the beginning to sleep alone, and since he knew now that it was a fear of being alone rather than a fear of the dark, he had a pretty good idea who might be awake and leaving the lights on.

It did bring up an interesting question to his mind, though. How _had_ Godiva been sleeping? He sincerely doubted that Diana would just allow her to sleep in the same bed with her, and it was even more unlikely that Godiva would have wanted to, given that her first meeting with Diana had been having a gun pointed at her. Then again, wasn't that how _he_ had introduced himself to her, too?

He shook his head, trying to push the thought from his mind. He wasn't supposed to _care_ how she had been sleeping, or if she had been sleeping at all. She was a problem, a nuisance, and right now she needed to be dealt with. And barring that, at the very least, he needed some answers, and he was the only person he knew of that had figured out how to communicate with her. And she wouldn't lie to him, not if she was smart.

He already knew Diana's place inside and out, though this was only the third time he'd ever been there. And knowing the layout of the place meant he had a pretty good idea which entrances were attached to an alarm system, and which ones weren't. And the ones that weren't, Diana wasn't stupid enough to leave totally unguarded. Something of a by-product of working so closely with one of, if not _the_ greatest assassin in the world; you never considered a possible entrance an unlikely one.

That being said, there were two that were so unlikely they probably had never even occurred to her as possibilities, and those were his choices; an open window on the top floor, which was difficult to get to but an easy infiltration, or the less obvious but much trickier ventilation system. He had already tracked it and found it went to the kitchen on the main floor, and at this hour it was highly unlikely that the stove was going to be in use, but the shafts were so narrow that one wrong move would leave him trapped an immobilized. Overall, not the most attractive option.

So the window it was to be, and it was lucky for him that climbing difficult terrain was something he never considered problematic. Getting to the second floor balcony was a piece of cake, but that left him with an entire floor plus a corner to round before he'd get to the open window. Even still, he didn't consider the task daunting; he was in his element now, finding seemingly impossible ways of getting in undetected, scaling walls that seemed impossible to scale, jumping distances that surely no mere man could ever jump. But he was no mere man, and he was on a mission, and he intended to succeed this time too.

He'd had a very narrow escape from a nasty fall just before reaching the window, and had only managed to save himself by grabbing onto the ledge at the last possible second, using what little momentum he had to swing himself toward it. He didn't chance a glance downward, but he could hear the brick that had become dislodged hitting the grass below with a faint _thunk!_ and then it was just a simple matter of pulling himself up and through the window. Thankfully, one of the exercises he did the most often were standard chin ups, and using his own upper body strength to lift himself was nothing he wasn't used to, even if he had to grunt with the effort of doing it.

Soon his feet hit carpet as he slid himself through the window, but it struck him as odd that he didn't recognize this room. A room he had never been in before wasn't that farfetched, since his knowledge of the layout of the house didn't necessarily afford him the knowledge of what every damn room _looked_ like, but the odd part was that the room didn't seem to Diana's taste at all. Bright pink walls, cheap carpet with thick pile, awkward circles of wood painted stark white and arranged to look like butterflies... it seemed more like a _child's_ room.

 _Hm... something you haven't told me, Diana?_ he thought as he moved further into the room, the lack of actual furniture making it easy to traverse. This room made him very uneasy, though he couldn't fathom _why._ It was none of his business or concern if Diana was somehow expecting a little girl. Still, the thought of Diana having a child bothered him. Maybe it was because he had never really considered her a _woman_ before... yes, surely that was it. His image of the stoic and rational Diana was threatened by the imposition of gender, that was all.

Still, that didn't stop him from getting the hell out of that room as quickly as possible without making any noise. Once he was in the hallway, however, he relaxed again. Even with no lights on, _this_ was more fitting of Diana's tastes. Nothing too elaborate or showy, that very essence of simplicity with vague hints of affluence here and there. High quality rugs, bits of expensive art and pottery, that sort of thing. Yes, this hallway was more like Diana, much more than that juvenile room he had just been in.

It struck him that he couldn't be exactly sure where in the house Godiva would be, but that was a non-issue. Follow the lights and eventually he would probably find her, doing who knew what to amuse herself while she was alone. Even as he traversed the hallway, seeking out the light, she could have been lurking anywhere, doing anything right now, and that suited him just fine. It was better she didn't see or hear him coming.

It wasn't until he had descended back to the second floor that he got his first clue. He had cringed when he stepped forward and his foot fell on something that crunched beneath it, and lifting his foot revealed a now trampled and dirty origami frog. He had never understood Godiva's strange obsession with them, but he was no stranger to stepping on them at random. Clearly she had been making them again, as this one was made of a paper that was green on one side and white on the other. The sort of paper origami was usually made of, rather than whatever scraps she could get her hands on.

 _She's been buying her things,_ he realized. _Was that room supposed to be for her?_ The thought irked him, more for the idea that Diana might be treating her almost like a daughter than the odd sense of decor. Godiva wasn't meant to be Diana's ward, she was here only because 47 had considered it the safest place for her. But it was perfectly harmless, wasn't it?

He continued on through the house, hiding away from the lights even as he was following them, listening for any telltale signs that she was moving about. So far he had heard nothing, but Diana was nothing if not incredibly neat, so a stray paper frog was a sure sign that Godiva was awake and moving. It was simply a matter of tracking her down, catching her before he himself got caught.

Finally, he reached a hallway where there was nowhere for him to hide, and just as he had made up his mind to get the hell out of it as soon as possible, a door opened and Godiva stepped out. He ducked quickly behind a corner, and when he peeked out Godiva was just pulling the door shut, trying her best to be quiet about it. He noted that she was wearing a dress he hadn't seen before, white with little red flowers all over that looked more to him like blood splatters. He kept himself hidden as she turned and started moving down the hall, thankfully in the direction he would have been going, which gave him the perfect opportunity to follow. And follow he did.

Godiva didn't go very far, though. A few doors down and she stopped suddenly, keeping very still before slowly starting to turn her head...

He couldn't have that. Even if she couldn't cry out, he wasn't going to lose the element of surprise, and so he moved swiftly, grabbing her from behind and habitually putting a hand over her mouth, though it was completely unnecessary. From there he quickly dragged her into a room, not even pausing to take a look around before shoving her off to the side and closing the door. Then, and only then, did he turn on the light.

The room was a bedroom of sorts, though the bed was just a daybed tucked away in a corner while the rest of the room had various pillows and soft things strewn about almost haphazardly. His mind briefly flashed on him that dingy back room where he had first found Godiva, and he decided that he had inadvertently dragged her into her own room.

With that mental note filed away, he turned to Godiva and only had a second to brace himself before she was upon him, arms wrapped tightly around his torso and her head pressed to his chest. A hug, one of Godiva's favourite things and one of his least favourite.

"Get off me," he commanded, his voice low and stern and he was somewhat surprised that she complied, releasing him and stepping back. "I have questions for you, and you're going to answer them honestly, understood?"

Now she seemed to sense that he wasn't in any mood for games or her trying to hedge around subjects, and her face seemed to fall as she nodded in assent.

"You... _did_ something to me, didn't you?" he began, moving toward her. "I've had to rescue women before, and I've never _once_ cared enough about them to worry what happens to them afterward. But you, I couldn't _stop_ worrying. Everywhere I went I was worried about you; whether you were safe, whether you'd been found. And I don't _care_ enough about people to ever make that seem normal. So you _did_ something to make that happen, didn't you?"

She started to shake her head, then she paused and for a moment, she looked extremely sad. As though something had just dawned on her that she didn't like. Finally, she nodded, and hung her head in shame afterward.

"What did you do to me, Godiva?" he pressed, moving closer again but this time, crouching down to pick up a notebook from off the floor, never taking his eyes from her as he did so. Once he was close enough, he held the notebook out to her. "Tell me what you did to me."

She looked around briefly before she spotted a pen, and she seemed to consider carefully whether it was a smart idea to go for it. In the end, she simply pointed at it, looking at him somewhat expectantly. When he retrieved it for her and held it out to her, she took it and seemed particularly embarrassed as she opened the notebook, flipping over a few pages before she started scribbling something. It was quick, and when she turned the notebook to show him, she still seemed embarrassed and ashamed.

"Pheromones," he read aloud, raising an eyebrow. "You used some kind of pheromones on me? How?"

She scribbled something down again, then seemed to think better of it and instead started doodling. He wasn't sure if she was just trying to waste time or not, but he humoured her for a few moments, and was ultimately rewarded for his patience as she held the notebook out for him to see.

What she had drawn was a rather basic figure of a woman, but with large protruding butterfly wings on her back. Some sort of whimsical fairy, he guessed, and he was about to tell her he didn't find that particularly amusing when he noticed that she was rather emphatically pointing to herself. Was she trying to insinuate that she was some kind of magical fey?

"Don't be so-" he started to say, then paused when he noticed that what he thought were supposed to be little sparkles coming off in lines from the fairy wings were actually little helixes. _DNA,_ he realized, furrowing his brow as things started to make some kind of strange, bizarre sense. "Are you trying to tell me you're part butterfly?"

She nodded, though she seemed as though she wasn't sure that was quite what she wanted to convey. But as his face softened, she seemed to relax and commit to the idea a bit more.

He had to admit, it did make sense, in a way. Dorfman's cover had been about making more docile bees for apiaries - who could say that when he created Godiva, he hadn't found some way of incorporating a small amount of insect DNA into her. And what better for the 'perfect woman' than a butterfly, considered by many to be the most perfect and beautiful insect in the world.

"You're not even human," he told her, tossing the notebook aside and somehow, all the other questions he'd wanted to ask didn't seem all that important anymore. "Not entirely, anyway. You look human, you even act human, but you're really something else - something less and yet more than that."

_Something like me._

He sighed a little, rubbing at his face with his gloved hands as everything slowly started to make sense to him. Godiva hadn't _intended_ for him to be compromised by her, she hadn't even realized it had happened until he'd asked. Somehow, she'd managed to release pheromones that ensnared his mind, kept her at the forefront. She'd found the one invulnerability he actually _did_ have, and the worst thing was he couldn't even do anything about it.

"If I had known just how much trouble you'd be," he told her, letting the implied 'threat' hang for a while before he gave another sigh, this one heavier. "Who am I trying to convince - I still would have done it, you probably know that just as well as I do."

She certainly seemed to, as she offered him a smile and moved toward him, and this time he didn't bother backing away. She knew he wasn't the type to enjoy hugs, and she'd definitely learned the hard way some time ago that he was not a cuddly person, so whatever she had in mind, with any luck, would be within his range of 'acceptable' invasions of his personal space.

But it wasn't. What Godiva did next was not something he considered acceptable _or_ appropriate; she rested both hands on his shoulders, using them as a sort of leverage to pull him down just slightly to get eye-to-eye. He noticed then that the eyes he had initially thought to be dark brown, when viewed this close, were actually a much lighter, warmer color. Almost like a dark amber in places where the light hit. Such a stark contrast to his own eyes, which he had heard being described repeatedly as 'ice blue'.

And then those eyes had closed, and she kissed him. Softly, almost shyly at first, and then with a great deal more devotion and passion. And as soon as his lips pressed to hers, he knew he couldn't resist her. For whatever reason, this silent, unassuming woman had broken through his conditioning, and the very second he could taste her all he wanted was more. _Everything._ What Dorfman had done to this woman was insanely effective, because even he, who had been specifically designed to have no attachments, no need of sexual release, was quickly becoming putty, relinquishing all self-control. All that from one kiss.

He was running entirely on instinct now, doing whatever his body told him to as he pressed her up against the wall, his hand automatically going for her leg, lifting it and holding it against his hip as he pressed in against her.

This elicited a soft gasp from her lips, which broke the kiss and momentarily, whatever spell she had over him. Somewhat ashamed of himself, he lowered his head and kept his eyes closed, breathing somewhat heavily.

"I don't know what's come over me," he told her. "I'm not like this, Godiva, I'm _not._ But all the same I find myself unable to resist. Being this close to you, all I can think about is how you smell, how you _taste-_ "

She pressed a finger to his lips, and when he looked up at her she smiled at him, in that same adoring way she always did. He wasn't sure whether he loved or hated that smile, or the unusual feeling in his belly he would get whenever he saw it; part unease, part embarrassment.

Whether it was just to get the smile off her face or because he needed to taste her again, he forced another kiss on her, but she in no way seemed to mind. Her lips pressed gently against his, and her hands went their separate ways - one over his shoulder and around his back, the other gently cradling the back of his head, and that was the moment where every bit of control was lost. His nerve endings were crackling, and he almost felt like he was flying, or dreaming, some fantastical thing like that.

With her leg still held in place against his hip, he used his other hand to hitch up her dress, one of his fingers hooking in the flimsy waistband of her panties. He let go of her leg and as soon as it was down, he pulled away long enough to tug the offending garment down, letting it fall down to her ankles before he went straight back to her lips. She was like a drug now - highly addictive and capable of altering his mental state to a near unrecognizable one, no longer the calm and calculated assassin but instead a more primal, baser man whose main focus was to see to his immediate needs.

It wasn't long before kissing just wasn't enough. His strange, sudden desire for her was growing into an insatiable need, and he hadn't even had the idea in his head for a second before his hands began roaming, searching out whatever exposed flesh they could find. Her thighs, her hips, the soft, malleable flesh of her buttocks - anything he could get his hands on, he was going for, and he didn't have nearly enough hands to feel everything. There was a resonating heat coming from her body, and it was something he had never noticed about anyone before - how warm they were, and just how much heat the human body gave off. This wasn't something only she could do, he was sure of that - he had just never taken the time to notice, or seen any reason to take note of it.

He couldn't take it anymore. The heat, the almost intoxicating smell of her hair, that feeling in the pit of his stomach - it was all too much, it was overwhelming him and clouding his judgement. Playing around and trying to stop himself from giving in to her was no longer an option, and he didn't even have the patience to fully undress either of them. He wanted _her,_ he wanted her _now,_ and as far as he was concerned there was only one thing in the way.

Quickly he unbuckled his belt, letting it hang open at his waist while he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. He gave no real thought to what he was doing or the many reasons he _shouldn't_ be doing it, just getting rid of what was in the way of it. As he freed himself, the heat she was giving off seemed to increase, driving him to the very edge of his sanity. Once again he lifted her leg and pressed it against his hip, but this time rather than just holding it in place, he used his free hand to guide himself into her.

Her lips parted in a silent moan, breaking this kiss but this time, his will was iron. After pressing the rest of the way inside, he lifted her other leg and held her in place as he started rocking his hips, tentatively at first but the more he did it, the better it started to feel. Before long, he was thrusting into her forcefully, grunting with effort to both keep her steady and keep himself from hurting her. She was probably the one person in the world he couldn't bear to cause harm to, but his lust was becoming so strong he was doubting whether or not he would be able to control himself.

A quick glance at the expression on her face told him that she was just as into this as he was, not to mention the way her legs had tightened around him and her hands were gripping tightly at his shoulders. Each thrust he gave made her hips jerk forward, which only coaxed him into continuing, his fingers digging in to her legs as his pleasure began to build - and hers, if the way her inner muscles were tensing around him was any indication.

Within minutes he was so lost in his own ecstasy he wasn't even aware of his movements. He was slamming himself into her now, his hands somehow having found their way to her hips and gripping them so tightly he could feel the bones beneath her skin. It didn't deter him in the slightest, and the only reason he knew the breathy groans and other sounds were coming from him was because he already knew she was incapable of them. He was sweating and his shirt was sticking uncomfortably to his skin, but he wouldn't dare stop, even if he felt like he was losing his mind entirely.

When he finally reached his climax, his eyes shut tightly and he rested his forehead against her shoulder,  giving heaving breaths that nearly matched hers - something he only noticed because of his proximity to her chest. With the mental fog beginning to clear away, he was becoming aware of two conflicting emotions he was having. On the one hand, he was satisfied and his endorphins were causing him to feel relaxed and almost happy. On the other, the reality of what he had just done and his lack of control made him feel guilty and ashamed.

Letting go of her hips, he pulled himself out of her and eased her back down to a standing position before turning away, tucking himself back into his pants and he couldn't get the zipper and belt done up fast enough to cover himself. He didn't speak to her, didn't even look back at her now that it was over, just tried to fix his clothing as best as he could.

"Don't touch me," he muttered when he felt a hand on his arm, jerking away from her like he was disgusted. And he was, just not with her - he was disgusted at his own self. When he chanced a look at her, he could see that she looked hurt by his words, and while normally he would have let it sit that way, he felt that he at least owed her some explanation. "I told you, I'm not like this. I don't _do_ this, I don't lose control of myself and I definitely don't pin women against walls and have at them like some sort of animal. I can't explain why I just did, but it's _not_ going to happen again."

She pouted at him like a scolded child, and he forced himself to look away from her, straightening his tie. She would get over it; she would have to, because he was determined not to lose control of himself again. It had been a moment of weakness, nothing more - he was better than this, he didn't need women or sex complicating the very strict life he led. He may have known already that she was more than just 'some woman', but he was absolutely certain in his mind that this evening would never happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While technically speaking this could qualify as dubious consent or 'dubcon', I'd like to make it perfectly clear that Godiva did not protest in any way. She may not have been able to predict 47's exact reaction to being kissed, but let's just say she was hoping it would turn out the way it did.
> 
> And on 47's side: No, Godiva did not use her pheromones to engineer this. They don't work that way.


	8. Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47 has coffee with Diana, and they discuss Godiva and her impact on his life.

47 hadn't gone very far that night. After that inexplicable episode of lust, he'd only really managed to further exhaust himself and while he did get out of the house, he'd only made it as far as his car before going to sleep. He hadn't been in a condition to drive and he knew that, but like hell he was going to let Diana catch him sneaking into her house in the middle of the night.

However, that hadn't ended up working out in his favour. When he woke the next morning, it was to tapping on the window, and when he opened his eyes and looked up, he saw none other than Diana, looking both surprised _and_ amused to see him. Knowing he was caught now, he grumbled softly as he rolled the window down to talk to her.

"Good morning, 47. It's not like you to make a social call; to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Take a wild guess," he replied, his voice coming out raspy and rough due to the dry mouth he was suffering.

"So that was your loose end," Diana murmured, then seemed to completely change tactic. "Why don't you come inside and have some tea. Or coffee, if you prefer."

He was about to protest, say he didn't need it and probably even be polite about it, but no sooner had he opened his mouth, Diana opened hers.

"You can use the front door this time."

 _Damn it._ Finally he sighed, nodding a little and hauling himself up into a sitting position to open the door. "Thank you, Diana."

"Don't thank me yet," she replied somewhat mysteriously, stepping aside as 47 got out of the car and closed it. He wasn't too worried about it being stolen - hell, he had stolen it in the first place - so he didn't bother to lock it.

He followed Diana into the house, ignoring the playful half-smirk Diana gave him as he passed through the front door and eventually settling down in a chair in the sitting room. It wasn't that he didn't get the irony, it was more that he was entirely too grouchy in the mornings to be in the mood for jokes.  And today was a particularly grouchy morning.

"Would I be correct in assuming that your 'loose end' was figuring out why Godiva's presence seemed to rattle you so much?" Diana asked, sitting down across from 47 rather than going to the kitchen.

"Yes, you would be correct," he replied, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice. "And I got my answer. Apparently, she has-"

"Pheromones," Diana finished, rather rudely but 47 was prepared to let it slide. "Among other things, yes."

"You knew?" Now 47 was even grouchier, but as a courtesy to Diana, he kept his anger in check.

"I found it hard to believe at first, but the more I thought about it, yes. It did make sense, since I've never known you to fail at resisting feminine wiles before."

"Then why didn't you say anything? How long have you known this and kept it from me?"

"Oh, not long. Our clean-up crew naturally seized as many of Dr. Dorfman's documents regarding his real work as they could find, and some of it had to do with Godiva. I've been reading over them since you decided to leave her with me. Well, since she decided to protest you leaving her here by climbing up to the rafters and refusing to come down."

"The rafters," 47 repeated, looking up at the rafters and he could actually feel his stomach falling. The rafters in this particular room were extremely high, somewhere around twenty feet, and he couldn't find any way of being able to climb up to them. "How did she get up there?"

"I told you, 47 - she climbed. She actually climbed up the bookshelf, used the sconces as footholds, and then climbed up the wall and onto a beam. Then she just... sat there, and no amount of coaxing could move her."

 _She's better than me,_ he thought, trying to retrace the path and as soon as he got to the sconces, he was stuck. He doubted if they'd even have supported his weight. "How did you wind up getting her down?"

"I didn't. After a while I just left her there, and she came down on her own once she got hungry. Thankfully, she's not been up there since."

 _How the hell did she climb the wall,_ he found himself wondering, still staring at the wall for any sort of clue. Even if he could suspend his disbelief that the sconces would hold her weight, it was a straight shot up a solid wall from there. It was impossible, yet somehow she'd done it!

"It turns out, a part of her DNA is feline," Diana offered after a brief silence, as though she had read his mind. "Panther, to be precise."

"Panther DNA?" 47 was interested now, his attention snapping from the wall to Diana. "She told me she had butterfly DNA."

"She does. The exact genetic composition is largely human, augmented with feline, butterfly, avian and bat DNA. Dr. Dorfman's ideas of 'perfect' animals."

"How is that even possible?" 47 asked. "Wouldn't the human structure reject that sort of modification?"

"That's where the bat DNA comes in," Diana explained. "Bats are carriers of many diseases, but often are themselves completely unaffected by them. This is because of the bat's unique immune system - it's capable of repairing its _own_ DNA, and its anti-viral genes are always active. Somehow, Dr. Dorfman managed to add these genes into Godiva's DNA, and because of it, it prevented her body from rejecting the other genetic modifications."

"It can't be true," 47 protested, shaking his head. "It can't be. If he could do that, then-"

"I know it sounds fantastic," Diana said quietly. "But the more I read of the notes, the more it started to make sense. See, human DNA has bits and pieces of it that aren't active unless they need to be - anti-viral genes and whatnot. By modifying those _specific_ genes, Dr. Dorfman made it possible for her to have inactive genes that weren't human. In short, he gave Godiva certain abilities unique to each animal that are only active when she needs them to be. The pheromones, the ability to climb impossible surfaces, the imperviousness to disease - she's capable of _rewriting_ her own DNA to make any of these traits active at any given time."

"Rewriting DNA," 47 murmured. _If that's true, she's capable of things we have yet to see._ "I think his intentions for her speak for themselves, so why was he using her to seduce wealthy people into funding his research?"

"Well, only he could truly answer that, and you killed him."

"Thanks for reminding me," he drawled, glancing up as he noticed movement coming from the nearby hallway. All it took was a brief flash of long ginger hair before he turned away, suddenly becoming very interested in the bookshelf. "How long did she stay up there, in the rafters?"

"Oh, about six hours," Diana responded, followed by the sound of a metal tray hitting the table and porcelain clinking together as Diana made tea. "Why?"

"It looks like she cleaned," 47 commented, having noticed the first time that there was absolutely no dust or cobwebs up there. It was probably the only reason he believed she had been up there in the first place - he'd always come home to find the place cleaner than he left it, and he wasn't a particularly messy person.

"Did she? I hadn't noticed," Diana remarked. "Thank you, Godiva. And thanks for making the tea, as well. She's really quite adept in the kitchen, you know."

"I know," was all 47 said, and once he had glanced out of his peripheral vision and saw Godiva wasn't in the immediate vicinity, he went back to facing Diana, even as he leaned forward to pick up the mug of hot coffee.

"She's also quite good with the piano. Just a few nights ago she played Debussy's Arabesque 1 completely by memory. Were it not for the unfortunate truth of her background, she'd be quite the prodigy."

"Not to mention she's too old to be considered a piano prodigy," he stated, sipping at his coffee. "You said it yourself, she's at least thirty years old."

"That worries me as well," Diana sighed. "Given that age, she's only just younger than you are."

" _Only just_ about twenty years."

"But in the grander scheme of things, that means she was probably in development not long after you were created. And yet her creation is a lot more _advanced_. If genetic engineering and alteration advanced that far in under twenty years, imagine how much further along it _could_ be now."

"I'd rather not." Considering that matter closed, he sipped at his coffee again, before leaning forward to set the cup down again.

"You had sex with her, didn't you?"

He nearly spit out his coffee in surprise, only managing to catch himself at the last minute, a small trickle of it dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. "Diana, _please!_ "

"It's a perfectly simple question. She's attractive in more ways than one, and you haven't so much as looked at her since you arrived. It's not like you to seem so _ashamed,_ so naturally I would think that you've done something you're not proud of that involves her. What else could it be?"

He sighed, setting the cup down on the table. "It just _happened,_ it wasn't supposed to and it won't happen again."

Diana smirked, lifting her cup of tea to her lips. "Good for you, 47. Perhaps you wouldn't be so tense if you continued to do it."

"Good?" he repeated. "Nothing about it is _good!_ "

"Really? That's unfortunate. Well, I suppose sometimes sex can be disappointing."

"No, I don't mean _that,_ I mean that it shouldn't have happened."

"But the sex itself was satisfactory?"

He gave another sigh, resting his head in his hands. "I don't know why I talk to you. _Yes,_ it was satisfactory, but the fact remains that I am not _like that._ "

"Oh come now, 47. I doubt if that was the _first_ time you've ever done it, why do you insist it should be the last?"

"Because sex just complicates everything. I can't be the professional I am if I'm constantly at the mercy of hormones and whatever the hell else Godiva has that made me react to her that way."

"Being professional is fine, but it doesn't have to be your entire life. You're allowed to have a private life outside of your work."

"I have one, and it's _private._ Meaning it's mine, and mine alone."

"Really, you're being too hard on yourself," Diana told him as she stood up, setting her own cup down on the table before walking over to another chair, this one being the one Godiva was sitting in. When again 47 went out of his way not to look at her, she considered her point effectively made. "And you're being too hard on Godiva; it's hardly her fault it happened. She told you she has pheromones, she does, but they aren't _sex_ pheromones. She didn't compel you to do it, you did it because you _wanted_ to, at least at the time. If you regret it now, that's really _your_ fault."

"I didn't... say I _regret_ it, exactly," 47 allowed. "And I know it's my own fault it got that far, I don't need you to point that out to me. If anything I'm more _embarrassed_ that it happened."

"Why, because you feel like you lost control and did something you think was wrong?"

"Yes! Is that so difficult to understand?"

Diana actually laughed at that, which seemed to startle Godiva enough to make her jump. "For someone who claims to understand her so well, her emotions are clearly over your head, 47. She was genuinely hurt when you left her here, and I imagine she was extremely happy to see you last night. Like it or not, she _loves_ you, 47, so why exactly was it so wrong?"

"How many times do I have to say it?" he barked, raising his voice perhaps a bit more than he meant to. He even turned to face Diana when he said it, so he could see Godiva shrinking down in her chair, hands wrapped tightly around her teacup. "I'm not _like_ that."

"No, you just _think_ you're not like that," Diana corrected. "You don't _allow_ yourself to be like that, but it's clear to everyone but you that you _are._ "

"I'm not," he insisted, though he kept his voice at a normal volume.

"You _are._ Despite your specific mode of creation, you _are_ human, and you do have needs and desires just like any other human. If you would just _accept_ that, perhaps you wouldn't be so flustered and embarrassed by it."

 _I doubt that,_ he thought, but opted to just keep silent for now and drink his coffee. At this point, it was pointless to argue, he realized. Maybe she was right, in her own way, about his comparative humanity, but she hadn't seemed to grasp the _reason_ he denied it. Being _too_ human was dangerous; relationships just put people he cared about in jeopardy, and while he already knew Diana could take care of herself, Godiva couldn't - superhuman climbing skill or not. And it wasn't as though he hadn't _noticed_ how attached to him she was, it was hard _not_ to see that, but it didn't change the fact that merely by being associated with him, she was in danger. Even more danger than he had already put her in by rescuing her.

It wasn't until Diana had retaken her seat in front of 47 and he had finished half of his coffee that the conversation started again, this time prompted by the sounds of piano music. Music that 47 recognized, despite his 'classical music' education being pretty lacking.

" _Tristesse_ ," he thought aloud, craning his head a little to listen better.

"I think Godiva's trying to tell you that she's sad," Diana said quietly, cradling her teacup in its saucer against her lap. "Just because she can't speak, doesn't mean she can't communicate her feelings. And right now, she's-"

"Hurt," 47 cut in, standing up. "I know. And before you say it, I know that's my fault, too."

"And what do you intend to do about it?" Diana asked.

But 47 didn't answer. Instead, he went up the few steps to the raised platform the piano was on, coming to stand behind Godiva and for a few moments, he just watched her play. The way her fingers bent and slid along the keys, each deliberate movement so small and delicate, the way her head was downcast to watch the keys... and the way her eyelids were fluttering, as though she were trying to hold back tears.

 _I wonder... if I can convey my feelings without speaking, too._ Silently, he raised a hand and gently placed it on her shoulder, simply letting it rest there for now. She didn't seem to take much notice of him at first, but when he gave a gentle squeeze, she stopped, taking her hands from the keys and letting them drop to her sides as she turned to look over her shoulder at him.

He still didn't speak, nor did he offer her a smile. Instead, he just stared into her eyes again, as he had last night, before lifting both of her arms at the elbows, to replace her hands on the keys. _Keep playing,_ he urged, though she couldn't hear. _Beautiful music like that deserves to be played to the end._

She seemed to share the sentiment, and presently her fingers began to move again, the music coming out of the piano elegantly and as though she had never stopped. It was then that he knew, even if their communication was off, on a deeper level, they understood each other. And it was a deeper understanding than he'd had with anyone before, possibly than he ever would again.

 _I won't call it love,_ he thought, even as he closed his eyes and just listened. _But I do care about you, Godiva. More than I probably should. And being able to be here and listen to you play... it's the most calm and relaxed I've felt in a long time. Perhaps ever._

"47?" Diana called, sounding a lot closer than he remembered her being. But rather than opening his eyes to look, he instead raised his hand and pressed a finger to his lips, shushing her. There had been enough interruptions, now was the time to listen. And for him, now was the time to let himself _feel_ , without fearing it. Even if it was only for a brief time.


	9. Poker Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47's next target brings him to a high-stakes poker game, where he demonstrates his ability to think in the moment.

One vice 47 had never really understood was gambling. Smoking he could understand - it was stupid, but understandable - and even drinking, he could see the appeal. But gambling, to him, was a pointless exercise of trying to win more money than you spent based purely on luck. With most games, skill didn't even come into it; slot machines were based entirely on a computer algorithm meant to make you lose, after bolstering your confidence with a few small wins. Roulette was trying to guess the number and color that the little white ball would land on. Craps was just literally rolling a pair of dice and again trying to guess the number. It was all just so pointless, such a useless waste of money and getting nothing in return except maybe a cheap thrill.

These things he lamented as he glanced down at the pair of cards in his hand, or at least appeared to be looking at them when really, he was watching the hands of everyone else seated at the table. On his right, a man who was suffering from methamphetamine withdrawal was constantly scratching at his knuckles, which were cracked and raw by now; only a matter of time before he started bleeding all over the cards. To his left was a typical 'bar fly' type of woman, who smoked cigars - far too many of them, actually - and was unsuccessfully trying to use her feminine wiles to put the other players off their game.

 _You wish,_ he thought coldly as he glanced up and caught her watching him, giving him a surreptitious wink. _I've killed better looking women than you._ They probably smelled a lot better, too, though he couldn't recall exactly.

"You look troubled, Mr. Croft," one of the men commented, which made 47 realize he had probably frowned at the flirtations of a woman he had come to refer to as 'Tipsy Headroom', though only in his own head.

He simply grunted a response, making the decision on the fly to let them believe that if they wished. It would suit his purposes for now - Poker was, after all, about fooling everyone else while trying to get the best hand possible. His kind of game, really; he may not have seen the appeal of gambling, but poker he was actually quite good at, if only because he was always so stoic. And right now, if the cards were right, he had a pretty good hand. By low-balling his bets and not getting too greedy, he could easily win this round.

Of course, winning the game wasn't what he was interested in. He was here 'on business', so to speak, and it was just a matter of getting his target alone. And barring that, with his guard sufficiently lowered that an accident became not only plausible, but _likely._

"You know what they say, about bald men?" purred Tipsy, the years of smoking giving her a deep, sultry voice with little effort.

"What's that?" he asked, if only to be polite. He was pretty sure he didn't _want_ to know what the kind of people Tipsy knew said about bald men. Besides, he'd probably heard it all before. Inwardly, he was wishing she was the target - not because he found her offensive, but because it would have been all too easy to lure her away.

The woman chuckled, a subtle rumble in her throat that she probably thought was sexy. "They say, bald men are like wild animals in bed... like the absence of hair just makes them more _primal,_ somehow."

 _Mmhmm... heard that one before._ He made sure not to let it show that he was offended, but decided to upturn her little game. "Mostly I just lay there," he lied, tossing one card out to exchange. "Sometimes I even fall asleep. Women who try too hard to be interesting just end up boring me."

A few scattered snickers around the table, but the bluff worked well enough and Tipsy seemed to back off, becoming much more interested in her cards. At the very least, now she knew that even if she could somehow convince him to let her whisk him away, she wouldn't get much enjoyment out of it.

With his next card, he saw his chances of winning increasing. Not because the card was good, but because everyone at the table had lowered their guard, amused by the shut-down. Now, their tells were more obvious; who was bluffing, who had a good hand, and who had a really bad hand was becoming all the more clear. His target, it seemed, had a really good hand, and was pretty confident.

 _Well... we'll just see about that._ He set his cards face down on the table, making sure to keep his hands away from them so nobody would accuse him of trying to cheat, and from there he reached into his jacket's breast pocket. Normally he kept various things that would be useful for his mission in this pocket; lockpicks, envelopes full of money, syringes on occasion. But tonight, for this mission, what he had in his pocket was something innocuous, and yet very important; chewing gum. Not one of his favourite things in the world, but it made a wonderful adhesive in a pinch, and his back-up plan had been, from the very beginning, to hide something under the table when nobody was looking and use that to kill his target. And likely everyone else in the room.

"Trying to quit smoking, Mr. Croft?" his target asked, sounding amused as 47 withdrew the gum from his pocket.

"Old card player's trick," 47 explained, as he withdrew a stick from the pack and began to unwrap it. "Chewing gum increases your concentration."

"Really? Does it work?"

"Not really," 47 shrugged. "But old habits die hard."

The target smirked, sliding more chips forward as he increased his bet. "Raise ya two grand."

Very confident indeed was the target. Still, winning or losing the round wasn't essential to his plans in any way. If anything, he was beginning to become annoyed with all this time wasting.

Following the raise, two of the other players folded, leaving himself, Tipsy, and the target still in the game. Tipsy, he knew, was more content to lose a lot of money in a single round than risk appearing intimidated. She'd only folded once the entire hour they had been playing, and that had largely been because she needed to 'tinkle', as she had cutely put it. The sort of jocular atmosphere he had set up early in the round was now replaced by one of tense concentration. Had he not needed to blend in, he might have laughed at how serious they were taking it. There may have been a lot of money at stake, but that just proved to him how stupid they were. Fools and their money are soon parted.

"Time to show what you're made of," Tipsy announced, before placing her cards down on the table, proudly declaring that she had two pair. She either didn't notice or didn't care that her 'two pair' were low cards, easy to beat. "How about you, sugar?"

The only outward manifestation of his annoyance with tipsy was 47 loudly snapping his gum, before placing his cards down on the table. "Full House."

"Dammit," the target hissed, tossing his cards down to reveal  his straight - queen high card. A tough hand to beat, but unfortunately not good enough this time. "You bluffed me!"

"That's the game," 47 said simply, shrugging one shoulder as he pulled his winnings toward him.

"Fuck!" Clearly the target was a sore loser, but his ire only lasted a few moments while he gathered the cards up before starting to shuffle them. By the time he had dealt them out again, he was perfectly calm.

*             *             *

Another forty-five minutes of poker later, 47 was ahead to the tune of two-hundred thousand dollars, and had been systematically losing on purpose to keep from becoming suspicious. Tipsy had won a couple of rounds, the target was just breaking even and the other two 'non-entities' at the table were pretty much hemorrhaging money. But the most interesting thing, at this point, was that 47 found an opening.

 In between rounds, a mutual agreement was reached which afforded everyone a quick ten minute 'smoke break'. Ignoring that everyone who smoked was already smoking around the table anyway,  the term was just catchier than 'taking a break to get the feeling back in my ass.' This afforded him with a brief window where he was alone in the room, and he quickly set in motion a more improvised plan. While he _could_ have just followed the target and taken him out, making it look like an accident was always much more interesting and complicated to pull off.

He had to move fast, as lingering in the room would look suspicious, but luckily this wasn't his first time using this particular tactic. Using a small amount of poison that he always kept on him - just in case he needed it - he coated a thumb-tack he had pried out of the table and secreted it within a tear in the chair his target had been sitting in. It wasn't enough to kill the man, but that was the fun part - it would make him feel very ill, and getting it in the leg would cause the nerves to fail to prevent him from simply escaping. From there, the target would have two avenues open to him; passing out from toxicity, or attempting to stand and promptly falling over. Either way, he was hitting the floor and then, 47 could move in for the kill.

After lurking about in the main room for a while, trying to stay as far away from Tipsy Headroom as possible, eventually it was back to the table. He was the last to arrive, but was just in time to fight back a smirk as his target sat down, immediately making a face and shifting around.

 _That's it, just widen the wound with your fidgeting..._ He didn't comment on the face, as nobody else seemed to notice, he just quietly took his seat and prepared for what likely would be one round of poker while the poison worked its way through.

The round went off without much of a hitch, and while he had actually started off with a decent hand, he stuck to his original strategy of trying to gracefully lose small amounts of money at a time to avoid suspicion. Not that it mattered here - someone at this table was about to die.

After several rounds of betting, he noticed the target had begun to sweat profusely, and he knew the poison was working. Knowing it wouldn't be long now, he tossed a few more chips into the pot, raising his bet by five hundred. It wasn't a _lot_ of money, but it at least made it look like he was trying to win.

"So what's it gonna be, Danny-boy?" one of the men around the table asked, as the last bet was - by pure chance - the target. "Too rich for your blood?"

The target cleared his throat, reaching for his glass. "I'm..." he began, before wiping at his sweaty face. "I, uh..."

Before anyone could even ask if he was alright, he stood up, and as 47 had predicted, he promptly collapsed onto the floor, but not before whacking his face into the table first. A nice little concussion to send him on his way, but not deadly. Not just yet, anyway.

Everyone at the table stood up the minute the man had crumpled, but 47 was the first one to get to him, crouching down and making like he was looking for a pulse. In reality, however, he was injecting the rest of the poison into his leg with his free hand - the hand nobody was watching. It was just like a magic trick; nobody noticed what they _should_ have been watching, instead focusing on what the magician _wanted_ you to focus on.

"He's alright, he's just unconscious," 47 informed them, standing up and hiding the needle behind his back now. "Someone go call an ambulance." _As if he has a chance of making it until the paramedics arrive._

Tipsy was the first to run out, though he kind of doubted she intended to call for help. The other two seemed content to stand around in shock, as if trying to figure out how they should react. Eventually, however, one of them left the room, presumably to go check on the woman, which left 47 alone with the remaining player.

"You sure he's alive?" he asked, somewhat shakily. "I never seen somebody die before."

 _You just did._ "Reasonably sure," 47 replied, "I imagine that blow to the head just knocked him out."

"Christ," he murmured, going for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket and tapping one out. "Hope he's alright."

"I'm sure he will be," 47 told him, despite knowing the man was never getting up again. Even now, he had noticed the man's breathing had stopped, as his chest had stopped rising and falling. The mission was completed, and he wasn't worried about anyone finding the tack, it was just a matter of waiting for the diversion of paramedics so he could make his escape quietly.


	10. Hiding in Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47 attends Comic-Con to track down a target he's not so sure deserves to die.

This was certainly a new one.

In the vast history of his past contracts, 47 couldn't remember a time when a target seemed more like a nobody than this one. He had gotten the briefing in person, which in itself was an unusual occurrence, but even then he had questioned why anyone would want this guy killed.

As far as he could tell, the target wasn't exactly a master criminal. No prior convictions, a few parking tickets, one charge of drunken misconduct, but nothing really salacious and juicy that might make it obvious why someone was paying quite a substantial sum of money to have him go on a permanent holiday. Hell, based on the briefing alone, it seemed more likely that someone just wanted to scare him than actually have him killed. But 47 wasn't in the business of just scaring people - he tended to do that on his own without any trouble - he was in the business of killing people, and he had long since made his peace with the morality of it.

The client had offered only one specific on how he wanted the job done; more specifically, _where_ he wanted it done. The target was the sort of person to go to a lot of conventions; 'nerd herds' was the term used - and the client wanted him killed at a specific convention, within a specific time frame.  This afforded 47 only two options; either going to the convention himself, or trying to pick him off from a safe distance via sniper rifle. There were no rules about the killing itself, just a time and place.

Still, what 47 knew of conventions meant it was going to have to be an up close and personal job. Far too many people milling about, largely in costume due to the subject matter of the convention itself, meant his target might have been a bit harder to pinpoint. But 47 being who he was, he had no intention of actually buying a ticket - he felt it was better for his own image anyway, if he wasn't exactly noticed arriving.

Sneaking into a convention centre was never meant to be easy. When one was expected to pay money just to attend, security would be tight on all the obvious entrances just to avoid anyone sneaky enough to try and get in without paying. But sneaking in and out of buildings unnoticed was one of 47's specialties. A lot of the time, he thought of it almost like a game - a fun little mental exercise.

Regardless, getting inside through a door was quite clearly out. In theory, he could have simply knocked out a guard, taken the uniform and let himself in that way, but the amount of people outside coupled with the fact that security generally had specific places where they were stationed at these things made it a less practical approach. Climbing to a window was no good either; the convention was throughout the building, and there were very few rooms which weren't used that would make suitable entry points.

And then the thought struck him; the roof. Nobody trying to sneak their way in would go through all the trouble of reaching the roof and working their way down, whether through the fire escape or via the elevator. The latter was risky, in that he would have to wait for the elevator to reach the top floor before it was a safe drop, but it was also far less likely to have any sort of alarm activated by opening a door.

Getting to the roof via the exterior fire escape was simple. There was only one guard lurking about, and he looked to be on a smoke break so he wasn't paying all that much attention to his surroundings. Sneaking past him by ducking behind cars and dumpsters was like child's play. Once he was actually on the roof, however, things became a great deal more complex.

The maintenance hatch for the elevator was not quite what he had been expecting. It was locked, yes, but it was also so basic 47 was wary of trusting it. Just a simple two-door metal hatch, locked shut with a padlock. The building wasn't quite _that_ old, but clearly nobody had ever considered it a problem. Still, curiosity got the better of him and he picked the lock with no problems, opening the hatch and peering down into the dark shaft that was now revealed. The elevator was on the second floor; close, but not close enough for a safe landing. That left him with no further options but to climb his way down.

He found himself very thankful as he made his way slowly down towards the roof of the elevator that nobody decided to use it in the meantime. Going down to the main floor probably would have been alright, but if they'd decided to go up to the third floor, he probably would have ended up injured. Or dead. And the thought of winding up dead because you were stupid enough to try climbing down an elevator shaft in a building full of people was pretty damaging to his image, not to mention his pride.

Finally, he made his way into the elevator and then out. The elevators themselves were tucked out of the way, in their own private little area out of the main corridors - probably for aesthetic reasons. But then it was just a quick walk through some double doors and suddenly a bright and colourful sea of people greeted him. People of all shapes and sizes, dressed in costumes of every monster, superhero and science fiction character imaginable. People with extravagant make-up, people with elaborate costumes, people with simple make-up and costumes... it was all here, lurking amidst a noisy cacophony of chatter.

_This isn't going to be fun,_ he realized, as he started wading through the throngs of people crowded around in the hallways. Social events rarely were fun for him, but the sheer number of people around was going to make this assassination very difficult to pull off without being spotted. And yet, even as he thought this, he found himself somewhat amazed by just how many people there were, how happy they all seemed. It was pretty obvious just how passionate these people were about whatever the hell they were dressed as, about what this congregation of people was all based around. And it was yet another place where 47 felt as though he stuck out like a hitchhiker's thumb.

"Whoa!" came a small little voice from somewhere near to the ground, which immediately caused 47 to look. Indeed, there was a young boy, probably around seven years old, staring up at him in amazement, as though he were somehow worthy of such awe. "Are you Lex Luthor?"

Suddenly, 47 had stumbled into the greatest disguise yet. Though he made no real effort to appear friendly, he crouched down slightly to get eye-level with the child, mostly so he could keep his voice low. "Not the real one," he told him. "Are you the real Superman?"

The boy laughed, shaking his head. "Naw, I'm just a kid. But that's such a cool costume! Did you shave your head for it?"

"No," 47 admitted. "I really am bald. It happens when you're a bad kid. So behave yourself, alright?"

"Okay!" With that, the boy took off, presumably to go and find whatever parent or guardian had brought him here. And 47 took the opportunity to slip away quietly, before anyone started asking to take pictures. He couldn't really afford to have any sort of lasting evidence that he had ever been here.

Tracking down the target took the better part of two hours. Having to carefully look at every face while trying to avoid anyone seeing your own was no easy task in such a crowd, but being tall certainly helped in seeing over the crowds. It also helped to be surrounded by vendor booths, as he could easily pretend to be looking at something if he felt he was being watched. And having to go through three floors, it was also somewhat simple to just slip away quietly if anyone seemed to take too much of an interest in him.

When he finally did manage to find him, he was actually a little surprised at the chosen 'costume', if you could call it that. He was wearing a suit, very similar to 47's own suit, even down to the red tie. The only real difference, apart from the target having hair, was in stature. Of course, the fact that the target was safely nestled between two people in full fur mascot costumes - one a wolf, the other a dragon - made him look a great deal smaller than he really was.

_The hell is going on,_ he wondered, ducking back into the crowd in order to avoid being seen. _Why is he dressed the exact same way I am?_ He didn't know much about comic books, admittedly, but he doubted if any of them actually dressed like this. He could see how a seven year old could mistake his normal dress as a super villain costume, but a grown man? Somehow he doubted it.

After waiting for the two furries to leave, 47 set about tracking his target, staying at as much of a distance as he felt comfortable with when to his surprise, he slipped into a room off to the side, his eyes glued to the phone in his hand. Suddenly, the way the target was dressed didn't matter - he had just done the single stupidest thing one could do while being tracked by an assassin. Not that the target would have known that, of course.

But that was only what 47 _thought._ He followed the target into the room, but was shocked to find the room completely empty. No people, no furniture, _nothing._ Just an open window that led out onto the fire escape.

_Well shit. He must have spotted me._ Thinking quickly, 47 climbed out onto the fire escape as well, intending to head up to the roof when he could hear a phone ringing nearby. Very nearby, it almost sounded as though it was...

Directly under his foot. How he hadn't managed to break it, he wasn't sure, but there it was, ringing and vibrating away. Frowning a little, he leaned down to retrieve it, noting that the name on the caller display was the exact name of the target. _Strange,_ he thought, answering the phone and holding it to his ear, but not saying anything.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. 47," the voice on the other end greeted him, sounding amused. " I'm a little disappointed; I hired you because I heard you were the best, but to just take the frontal approach? That's sloppy."

Immediately 47 bristled; if there was one thing he hated, it was being jerked around. But to have dragged him to this place, of all places? "You hired me to kill you," he stated. "Why would anybody do that?"

"Because I was bored," the target laughed, as though this were all just a big joke. "And because I think I can outsmart you. See, a little legal loophole; if someone is trying to kill you, it's legal to kill them first. Self-defense."

"I'd imagine self-defense doesn't apply in a situation where someone hires an assassin to kill them. Clearly you wished to die."

"But nobody's going to know I hired you, are they? It isn't as though you could get out of murder by stating you were hired for it. But if I kill _you-_ "

"You won't kill me. If you're determined to play this game, I'll play. But there's only one way it will end, and you won't enjoy it."

With that, 47 disconnected the call. And, knowing full well that this target was at least semi-intelligent, he quickly tossed it off the fire escape, watching it hit the ground below and shatter. He wasn't going to risk being tracked by it, he was already at enough of a disadvantage. And that alone just made him angrier. He didn't _want_ to play this stupid game, but he didn't have much of a choice now; the target had seen his face, and likely wouldn't stop until one of them was dead. And 47 was determined not to be that one.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the year-long hiatus! I've recently been replaying Hitman: Contracts so expect more MUTE to come soon.


End file.
